Anne of the Glen
by ruby gillis
Summary: COMPLETED! The adventures of the Blythe family, set between Anne's House of Dreams and Anne of Ingleside.
1. 1

"I do love a walk on the shore," mused Anne Shirley--no, not Anne Shirley! Anne _Blythe_--but it was so easy to forget that she was not the Anne Shirley of days of yore when her still-slim figure was garbed in her bronze housedress--so like the brown gloria Matthew had bought her long ago!--and her hair had come loose from it's trappings and sprang into little wayward curls about her face. Her eyes were just as dreamy as they had always been as she laid her finger pensively against the charming dent in her chin.

"Why is it," she wondered, "That a walk on the shore is never a wrong idea--not in any weather? When it is beautiful and sunny the sea is beautiful and sunny, too--when it is blustery and stormy the waves on the rocks seem to suit my feelings _e-zackly_, as Davy used to say! The only time it's not appropriate to walk here is when it's raining--but I don't even mind the rain. The rain and I have always been _friends_. This Glen shore seems like a dear friend--personable and changeable. How can that be? To quote another Davy-ism: 'I want to know.'"

"Well, I don't know," laughed Leslie Ford--Leslie Moore of old--who had not changed much herself since we last saw her. Perhaps she had grown a bit thicker about the waist but thinness had never suited her. Or so said Miss Cornelia, who would have defended Leslie if she had sprouted horns on her forehead. Leslie's eyes seemed given to fits of dream and wonder as they never had in the old days and her mouth--why, her pretty mouth was never without a smile, now! _Those_ changes had much to do with the tall man pouring over his writing desk back at home and the wee fellow asleep in his crib by the fire, to be sure.

"Your trouble is that you think too much, Anne," Leslie laughed again--Leslie was always laughing these days. Anne thrilled to hear it. "I see the rocks and the gulls and the waves and I think, 'Oh, how beautiful!' and feel happy about it and soak in the beauty and that is enough. But then, I am not a B.A. like you, Mrs. _Dr._ Blythe."

The girls shared a companionable smile.

"I can't help thinking about things," Anne mused. "_To know_ has always been my goal in live--after _to love_. To have a hundred years in this world to learn--to explore--to grow and watch things growing--it's marvelous! I can't help feeling wonder-full--it just bubbles up in me. And _don't_ twit yourself about not being a B.A., Leslie." This was said sternly--with four small young ones at home, Anne had had to learn to be gently stern--at times. Like when Aunt Josephine Barry's Wedgewood plate had been stepped on by small feet and broken (but _what_ was it doing on the floor in the first place?) Or when a hunk of chewing gum had been found in Small Diana's hair (Jem had put it there...to "see what would happen." He found out.)

"I'm not twitting myself," Leslie protested, laughing some more. "My time for B.A.s is long past I fear--" she patted her waistline fondly and thought again of her wee man in his cot at home. "But it would have been nice to have had the chance when I still _had _it." Leslie's face grew a mite troubled as she thought back over the years before happiness had come to rest in her heart. Anne slipped her pale hand into Leslie's sun-browned one.

"Hasn't Owen said you might take a course in literature if you wanted?" Anne wondered.

"He has," Leslie was all smiles again. "But oh, Anne, I'm _really_ happy as I am, 'no foolies,' as we used to say in school. Only...Owen has been talking lately about starting another book...set in Japan."

"Japan!" Anne cried.

"Yes--it is a very interesting plot--but he knows next to nothing about the Japanese culture and wants us to move there, for a while at least, to experience it. But not for a while yet. He is still revising his current book."

"If you _are_ to go," sighed Anne, "I'll miss you dreadfully. And the little House of Dreams will have to spend another summer boarded up. That dear house--I feel it _lives_ for the times when you come to it."

"It _is _dear--and we won't be leaving it forever. Perhaps Owen and I will rent it while we are away--you can interview the tenants and make sure that only a _true_ kindred spirit resides within its walls. How are you and Ingleside getting along lately?"

"I'm starting to love it, I think," Anne said cautiously. "Walter and the twins do--though Jem remains loyal to the home of his birth. Though he can't remember ever living there, just the times he has been down to play with Kenneth. Ingleside and I are becoming friends--more and more with each passing year. I was so determined not to like it in the beginning and you know how stubborn I am, Leslie! But I have always wanted a dressing room of my own and Ingleside _has_ one. That's nice."

"You've made it look so homey," said Leslie.

"Oh, thanks. I _do_ love a really _homey_ home. Of course there is still much work to be done--Gilbert wants to replace the shingles and sand the floors--though when he will get the time I don't know! And Susan is in love with it. 'This is _my_ House of Dreams, Mrs. Dr. dear,' she said. 'The new pantry has seen to that.'"

Susan was a duck but the Mistresses of Ingleside and the House of Dreams had an unholy laugh at her expense over _that_.

"I wonder how much time we'll have for walks on the shore this autumn," said Leslie, again running her hand fondly over her waist.

Anne put her arm around Leslie's and smiled, and leaned in close to whisper a secret of her own into her friend's ear.

"Anne! You aren't serious! _Both_ of us with new arrivals! How perfectly sweet. And how lucky for you! A spring baby will be good and kind-tempered, like a March breeze. Or so saith the baby book Miss Cornelia brought me."

"And an autumn baby?"

"Will be fiery and hotheaded, with hair like autumn leaves. Does that sound familiar, dear one?"

They shared a giggle again, and Leslie once more grew pensive.

"This night, with the waves crashing on the rocks after the storm, reminds me of the night we first met on the shore, so long ago," Leslie shivered. "How many wonderful things have happened since then!"

Anne thought of those first years with happiness, yes, but could not help the pang in her heart as she thought of her first little lady who slept quietly in the churchyard. She pushed it quickly aside and clasped Leslie's hand a second time. "And how many more wonderful things are destined to happen!" she said, summoning joy.

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Every light in Ingleside was on when Anne made her way up the path--a dear, winding path lined with what Captain Jim used to call "cohawk" shells. Anne was not admiring the shells just then. She was wondering what could possibly be the matter, to have the house all lit up! She picked up her skirt and hastened up the steps.

A harried Susan met her at the door, quick to reassure dear Mrs. Dr that nothing serious was amiss. Only--everything had gone "all catawampus." Walter had taken a notion into his head that the moon was a _hole _in the sky and for some reason that frightened him and he would not go to bed. The twins had gotten into the window boxes and uprooted every last one of the new apple geraniums _in front of Miss Cornelia_ and they had had to be spanked. They took the spanking well, but Susan--who deep in her heart believed that the Ingleside children could do no wrong--had not. And Jem had a pain in his tummy and of course the doctor was away--but then, wasn't Little Jem always sore in the that area after his visits to Green Gables? Marilla and Mrs. Rachel spoiled him with _such_ rich foods. But Susan did not mean to criticize. _She_ knew her place.

Anne's lovely dreams of the sandshore receded in the prosy light of what needed to be done. She relieved the weary Susan and climbed the stairs to the nursery, where she kissed and stroked and soothed the evening's troubles away. The twins were already asleep--a hot water bottle on Jem's sore stomach did just the trick--and a talk with a frightened Walter relieved most of his fears.

"But Mummy, if the moon isn't a _great gaping hole _in the sky, what is it?"

"It's just a moon, dearest. A great shining beacon to keep the night from being too dark."

"But Mummy, can't we ever go to the moon and find out for sure?"

"If you close your eyes, you can fly there in your dreams. Now, it's time for sleep."

"Oh Mummy--it would be so nice to fly _for real_. Wouldn't it be nicer if we had wings?"

"We would look very silly if we had wings. Good night, small son."

"Goodnight, Mummy."


	2. 2

"They have the most delicious baby over at the House of Dreams," said Miss Cornelia, joining Anne and Susan on the verandah, where one was knitting and the other engrossed in a frenzy of imagining, on a cool September evening that seemed elfin beyond belief. The fir trees were like pointed witches' hats in the red sunset light reflecting off the harbor and there was a sweet tang of smoke and--something _else_--on the little wind that came up from the shore.

Anne looked up from her daydream reverie, stroking Matey's broad orange back. He purred in ecstasy and dug his claps into Anne's lap.

"Oh, we know, Miss Cornelia, we went to Leslie's new arrival yesterday. Isn't she a dear? Owen has collected the children, and taken them over to see her. I expect they'll be enchanted."

"She's the prettiest baby I ever saw," said Miss Cornelia, settling her own knitting in her lap. "But I didn't expect anything else from a daughter of Leslie West. 'Persis' is an uncommon name, though."

"Not for a girl born in the Schoolmaster's Bride's house," said Anne joyfully--she loved to see her dear little House of Dreams filled with life and love. "And little Persis Ford is the great-granddaughter of Persis Selwyn. How could they call her anything else?"

"True enough," Miss Cornelia conceded. "They _were_ thinking of calling her Kathryn, you know. I'm glad they didn't, for one. Kitty Alec Douglas would have gone around telling everyone it was for _her_, and I couldn't have abided that. Owen Ford is Kitty's fourth cousin, you know, though I suppose that isn't his fault. It's too bad that Owen and Leslie are going back before Christmas. And it's been settled that they won't be back next summer--they're going to Japan after all."

"Oh, I am glad for them," said Anne. "But I am so unhappy for _us_. I harbour secret little foolish dreams of Leslie and Owen staying in the House of Dreams--and near to us--always. But an author must sacrifice for his craft--he is a veritable slave to it. So go to Japan they must."

"Do not you think that unwise, Mrs. Dr. dear?" said Susan. "To take those blessed children to that place?"

"Why not, Susan? My Redmond chum, Priscilla Grant, married a Japanese missionary and says it is a beautiful place, the most beautiful she has ever seen. She likes it very much. _I_ should like to visit it, before my days are ended."

"Indeed you should not!" said Susan indignantly. "Japan is full of heathens."

"Well, heathens won't bother you if you don't bother them, like most other folks," said Miss Cornelia complacently.

Susan sniffed. There were some things she would not deign to respond to, and Miss Cornelia's jabs were among them. Plus, she wasn't _too_ sure that Miss Cornelia was right. The heathens _were_ heathens, after all!

"Please, let's not talk about Leslie leaving any more," Anne begged, on the verge of melancholy. "It makes me sad and today isn't a day for being in a blue mood. Look at that one cloud over the harbour--I never thought, when I lived in Four Winds, that I could grow to love the Glen as much as I do. I love everything about it."

"Well, _I_ don't like how Carter Flagg's raised prices in his store," said Miss Cornelia. "It's simply abominable. Bessie Flagg's just had another baby and every time she does, the price of butter goes up. 'Why should you take out your mistakes on us poor folks?' I asked Carter the other day. He just laughed and laughed and didn't answer my question. Isn't that just like a man? But I whinged at him until I got two dozen eggs good and cheap and I'm going to make a fruitcake for the holidays. It does good to do it early, so you can leave it to set. Can I bring you up a slab, Anne?"

"We have no need for fruitcake here," said Susan shortly. Susan was not an overtly prideful person, but she secretly thought that she could make fruitcake just as well as _Mrs._ Marshall Elliott--if not better.

"That reminds me," said Anne. "Is it true that Lydia Douglas stole her sister Marcia's fruitcake recipe for the Charlottetown Exhibition?"

Miss Cornelia darted her eyes to and fro, as was her habit before she imparted an especially juicy piece of gossip. She did not like gossiping before the doctor--he had the habit of looking at her perfectly seriously, but with laughter in his eyes. Just like a man.

Her hesitation lost her the place of honor in the tale-telling. Susan jumped on it and beat her to the punch.

"That she did, Mrs. Dr. dear. It was something of a scandal. I have heard it told that Marcia will not give her recipe to anyone--not even to her own mother on her deathbed. 'Tell me, pet,' said Marcia's mother, as she was dying. 'I just want to know what makes it so tangy. Orange peel?' 'I'm sorry, Mother,' Marcia said, 'I can't tell you.' Do not you think that was wrong of her, Mrs. Dr. dear?"

"I think Marcia might have risked it," said Anne, with a twinkle in her eye.

"Anyway, Lydia had wanted that recipe for _years_," said Miss Cornelia, taking back what was rightfully hers. "So she phoned up Marcia and pretended to be the minister's wife inviting her to tea and when Marcia left, Lydia ran over and snuck in and stole the recipe out of Marcia's locked cabinet. She picked it with a hairpin. It was lucky she had those masses of wiry hair or else she mightn't have been wearing so many. Marshall's brother is Lydia's first cousin by marriage and he used to joke that he'd no idea how she could hold her head up under the weight of all those pins. Well, of course there was no tea at the minister's house and Marcia came back confused, but no one knew what had happened until Lydia was caught a while later and then it all made sense."

"How _was _she caught?"

"Well, when Marcia heard _Lydia_ won first prize at the Exhibition, she turned positively purple, Anne, dearie. She decided to see for herself and tried the cake--and with one bite, she knew. She accused Lydia right then and there and Lydia, being a weak-livered, simpering thing, confessed on the spot. Of course she shouldn't have _lied_, but I feel that if she had any conviction she would have held out a while longer before telling them the truth. Well, the judges didn't know what to do with the prize ribbon since they certainly couldn't give it to Lydia. But Marcia had created such a stir they didn't want to give it to her, either. So they gave it to Myra Murray instead."

"I will not but admit that Myra Murray is a good Christian woman," said Susan, "But her fruitcake is _not_ to be admired."

"Myra Murray's brother over in Harmony's gone clean mad," said Miss Cornelia with the tone of one remarking in passing on the weather. "He's taken to carrying one of his daughter's dolls around with him all the time--thinks it's his baby. He pets it and coos to it and feeds it--his wife says that if he'd shown half of that much care for any of his real children when they were young it would have made her life easier. That's just like a man. They're all the same."

"I should think you would not take that tone about the men," said Susan hotly. "Since you have married one yourself."

Susan stabbed her cloth with her knitting needles. She thought that if Miss Cornelia did not like the men too much, she might have left hers for one of the old maids who would have been all too happy to get him.

"Miss Cornelia," said Anne helplessly, with a grin, but spreading her hands wide. "Will I ever be able to convince you that not all men are selfish creatures?"

"Yes--when you show me one," Miss Cornelia retorted. "And when you show me his mother hasn't been run ragged trying to get him presentable. Though I guess it's really just force of habit, dearie. The doctor is a good man, and Marshall really isn't a bad soul. He bought me a new hat last week for no good reason. It's awful ugly, though I didn't tell him. But I'll dress it up nice and I bet he won't even notice the difference."

"And anyway, it's the thought that counts," said Anne, dimpling.

"I suppose, after all's said and done, a husband really is a nice thing to have." Miss Cornelia looked pointedly at Susan, who did _not_ reply.

"Speaking of all things matrimonial," said Anne, suddenly clasping her hands. "Dora is getting married next fall. To Jane Andrews' little brother, Ralph. I just got the letter today. She wants Nan and Di as flower girls."

"Do not you let them do it, Mrs. Dr, dear," Susan cautioned. "My niece Millicent's flower girl et all the flowers in her basket at Millicent's wedding and was sick the rest of the afternoon."

"Oh, I don't think the twins will do _that_. They've too much respect for flowers to eat them. And Dora is quite set on having flower girls at her wedding and they are the only little girls of suitable age in our connection right now."

"Hard to believe she's so grown up," Miss Cornelia remarked.

"Well, no," Anne admitted. "Dora has always seemed grown up, even when she was seven years old. It's really Davy I'm the most in awe about. _His_ wife just had a baby--their first. They called her Mary Marilla."

"Miss Cuthbert must be pleased about that."

"She is. Marilla has come to love children over the years. She is so good and gentle with them. She is glad to have Davy and Millie's young one nearby, since all of my brood are so far away."

"Here's the doctor coming up the lane," said Miss Cornelia. "That means our gossip-fest is over. I'll just stay until I've finished this row--I've got to get home and get Marshall's supper."

"Over!" said the doctor, throwing his hands up in mock consternation. "You can't tell me I've missed everything already. Alas," he mourned, "I suppose that is a poor, busy country doctor's lot in life. To miss all the good gossip." His eyes twinkled.

"We've been talking about babies and fruitcake," said Anne, as Gilbert put his arms around her. "Nothing _too_ fascinating. How is Mrs. Morrison?"

"She's out of danger." Gilbert looked proud. He was still new enough at doctoring that his ability to intervene in matters of life and death never failed to astonish him.

"Matilda Morrison never had the sense God gave a goat," said Miss Cornelia, putting her knitting away. "The say she caught that pneumonia after running out in rain to get her clothes off the line and locking herself out of her house. Her husband was away in town all night and she was too proud to go to any of the neighbors. Well, what do you expect? Her father was always like that. When his house burned down in the night he managed to escape with just the nightshirt on his back. The Ladies Aid tried to give him some new clothes to wear, but he was too proud to take them and went around for weeks in that same nightshirt. Isn't that just like a--" Miss Cornelia caught herself and blinked in the light of the doctor's knowing smile. "Isn't that the silliest thing you ever heard?"

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A/N: I haven't forgotten about Cecilia, I just have a bit of writers block there. So don't fear, I'll update on that soon. For now, thanks for your reviews on this story.

Yzmakitty: Thanks for trusting Anne to me. I'm glad you like the story so far.

Terreis: Ingleside always seemed to start sort of abruptly for me, too. And who knows who will come to stay in the little house.

Andrea: You should try your hand at writing a ff in German (you are German, aren't you?) and then using google to translate it.

Adriennelane: don't worry about Cecilia. She's not dead, just sleeping. : )

Emily-in-the-glass: I'm working on putting more of Gilbert in.

Rilla Blythe: Thank you! I love that compliment.


	3. 3

In October they gave Ingleside it's yearly fall cleaning.

"I've never minded cleaning," said Anne, wiping her hands on her starched apron, her cheeks flushed pink with activity and little tendrils escaping around her face. "I love making things shine and glow—I _like_ poking around in all the little corners and cubbies of this house—every time I do I find something more to love about it. Susan, have you ever noticed the little, low shelf in the back of the jam closet? It looks like it was put there for a family of wee people."

"I have not noticed it until now but I shall be sure it is always wiped down in the future," Susan said resolutely.

"Look how _comfy_ the parlor looks," said Walter, passing through, and stopping to admire their handiwork. "It looks just as home _should_ look, doesn't it, Mummy? Doesn't it give you a shivery, _gladdy_ sort of feeling?"

"I must admit I feel content," Susan said, thinking of the shining row of preserves she had just stocked in the aforementioned jam closet.

"We are tidy and spic and span," said Anne with a smile. "And the spare room has finally been papered---that hideous bluebell pattern is no more! I am going to use that as an excuse to have visitors—I want everyone to come—before, well, before I won't be able to have visitors for a while."

This was said with a secret smile exchanged with the doctor, who was eating a late supper by the kitchen hearth.

"Who are you going to have come, Mumsy?" asked Jem eagerly. He hoped Aunt Marilla would come—_not_ Aunt Rachel, who had the tendency to fuss. But Aunt Marilla was so easygoing. Or maybe Aunt Diana would come and bring Little Fred? Jem was in awe of Little Fred, who was five years his senior and seemed impossibly grown-up.

"I'm going to ask—everyone!" said Anne, throwing up her hands.

"Not all at once, I hope," said Susan, looking slightly stricken.

No, not all at once! Anne spent days pouring over her calendar and writing out letters of invitation. She wanted Diana and her brood for apple-picking season—impish Jen Pringle at Halloween—Little Elizabeth for a while in November—Phil and the Reverend Jo nearer to Christmas—and Marilla and Rachel Lynde any time they wanted. They were always welcome. Anne spread one of the latter's cotton warp quilts on the spare room bed and made ready for the arrival of her guests.

Everyone accepted her invitations. Susan went even whiter around the gills and cooked overtime, preparing for the full house. Anne laughed but looked concerned.

"Really, Susan, these folks are of the race of Joseph. They don't expect much—we don't need to put ourselves out for them—a little treat here and there will do. There is absolutely no need to whitewash the kitchen! In fact, I forbid it! It makes me feel terrible that my passion for visitors has created more work for you."

"Do not you worry, Mrs. Dr, dear," said Susan grimly, her hair streaked hideously with paint. "I do it more for my piece of mind than anyone else's—I _won't_ have anyone saying Susan Baker keeps a shabby kitchen."

Everyone accepted gladly—or almost everyone---Glen St. Mary was a lovely destination in fall and early winter. "There is only one letter unanswered," said Anne with sigh, in the gloom of autumn twilight. "I would like to hear from Katherine Brooke."

"Katherine Brooke!" said Gilbert, coming out onto the verandah in time to hear his wife's remark. "From your Summerside days? What is she up to, lately?"

"We haven't been in touch in _so_ long, it seems," sighed Anne. "After I left the school they offered the Principalship to her, you know--but she turned it down. It seems her uncle died several years ago and left all of his money to her, something she never expected. She put a wee bit aside---enough to live on---and used the rest to go on a world tour. She's become quite the anthropologist, I hear. The last letter I had from her was marked Cairo---and that was three years ago now."

"She was always a bit dour and jealous of you, wasn't she?" Gilbert remarked. "Perhaps that is keeping her from answering."

"Oh, Gilbert, no! She was at first, I know, but we became _such_ fast friends as soon as she let me under her hard crust. No, likely she's someplace out of the way---touring the pyramids or the Aztec ruins, or wandering the old gardens of Babylon, looking at my letter and going, 'How can I leave the splendor of _this_ for a backwater farm and a redheaded schoolma'arm?'"

"I'd be on this 'backwater farm' with _my _little red-headed schoolma'arm than anywhere else in the world," said Gilbert huskily, and they talked no more of Katherine Brooke that night.

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Diana came and the apples were picked---Jen Pringle came and Halloween felt extra-laden with golbin-y magic that year. Little Elizabeth's visit was postponed---she and her father were in Paris for November---but the Reverend Jo and Phil Blake came with both their little boys and stayed almost a month. It was quite like old times with Phil.

"Aren't little Alec and Alonzo darling in the firelight?" chuckled Phil, cooing to the babes in Anne and Susan's arms. "Doesn't _every_thing look beautiful in firelight? My nose doesn't feel so posi_tiv_ely Byrne-y in this little kitchen."

"You are just as pretty in firelight as out of it, Mrs. Reverend, dear," said Susan comfortingly to Phil. Philippa was a favourite of hers.

Phil was a favourite of everyone's.

"I'm surprised Jonas let you name the boys after your two old paramours," Anne wondered. "Of course Jo couldn't ever be jealous---he is too good-hearted--and a minister shouldn't be jealous---but Phil, you must admit that it's strange!"

"Well, of course it is, honey," laughed Phil. "But Jo knows that Alec and Alonzo are just as much a part of my life as anyone else. Why, my dilemma with them just sums up my whole personality! And when I had the boys, I couldn't decide on any names---I fretted and dithered about it_--_and finally just threw sense and caution to the wind. The old Alec and Alonzo are thrilled about it. It's quite the consolation prize for not getting me so long ago. Because _my_ wee Alec and Alonzo are the tweetest ickle bitty tings, aren't you, darlings? Anyone can see that."

"You are just as velvety and lovable as ever, Phil," smiled Anne.

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Marilla and Mrs. Rachel came for a weeklong visit, promising to come back in the spring, when needed, and then Little Elizabeth came to stay. She was a tall, milky-white creature of light now, and love and happiness radiated from her. She had her father in tow---they were just passing through, he said, on their way to Charlottetown, and couldn't stay longer than a fortnight. Mr. Grayson was prepared to take a room in town. He wouldn't dream of imposing---after all, it had been Little Elizabeth who was invited, not him.

"Indeed you will not. You're staying here," said Anne.

But Anne could not help remembering how much she had disliked Pierce Grayson during the Windy Poplars days. How could he have abandoned such a magical, adorable child? Anne looked at her own babies and at Little Elizabeth and knew that _she_ never could have done the same. She was very cold and formal with him, though Susan doted on him especially.

"He is the handsomest man I ever saw, Mrs. Dr., dear," said Susan. "Except for the doctor," she added loyally.

It was the one thing she and Miss Cornelia agreed on. "Marshall doesn't want me spending too much time up here, lately," she dimpled. "Now why can you suppose?"

"He is handsome," said Anne, thinking of Mr. Grayson's silvery-black hair and dark, impenetrable eyes. "But oh, Miss Cornelia, _he_ is not of the race that knows Joseph, I fear."

Her fears were eased somewhat over the affair of Fairyland. One night, over supper, Little Elizabeth--not so _little_ at thirteen as she had been at seven---unfolded their old map of Tomorrow. "I'm afraid Father and I have added to it, Miss Shirley," she apologized. "We didn't want to do it without you but Father dear and I are always together---and we didn't want to start over because it was _such _a nice map already."

"We have added an Eden-garden near the elephant park," said Pierce Grayson, his eyes twinkling. "And I have added a Road to Yesterday for myself. Oh, Yesterday---how nice it would be to go back to you---to go back!"

His eyes were suddenly _very _impenetrable, then.

One night, after little Elizabeth had been tucked away, Pierce showed Anne a picture in an old locket--one he wore on a chain around his own neck, always. It showed a wan, pale girl with silvery blonde hair and a misty, vibrant smile that seemed unexpected on her quiet face.

"Is that---it can't be---"

"It's my wife," said Pierce, looking at the picture fondly before snapping it shut and turning his eyes away. "Little Elizabeth is the picture of her, Mrs. Blythe. You can see---can't you--why it hurt me so to have Little Elizabeth near me?"

"I---suppose," said Anne doubtfully. Her mother-heart knew the impossibility of abandoning one's child. Why, little Jem was the picture of Gilbert at times, but she could never leave him if Gilbert---if anything were to happen to him.

"I feel as though I ought to explain to _you_," said Pierce. "I know you wonder how I could have done it---I wonder, too, now that I have Elizabeth near me. How could I have lived so long without her? I do not think you could call it living. I was not living without my Elizabeth."

His voice was so impassioned and his eyes full of such love and regret that Anne's heart began to soften toward him.

"A bit, at least," she clarified to herself. "He obviously loves her. But it would be easier if I could forget how love-starved Little Elizabeth was when I found her."

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Jem came back from the post-office one frosty afternoon with a bundle of mail under his arms---one letter bore a familiar black handwriting and mysterious, alluring, funny little stamps.

"May I have them for my collection, Mummy?" he asked.

"You may have the moon today, if you want it," said Anne, a light in her eyes. "Oh, Gilbert, it's from Katherine Brooke. My letter took long to reach her---she is on a boat journey down the Amazon---she wrote as soon as she received it and left the day after it was mailed. She _is_ coming to visit us---she 'wouldn't miss it,' she writes---she will be here in time for Christmas! Oh, won't it be _nice_ to be with Katherine at Christmas?"

"Where will we be for Christmas this year, Father dear?" asked Little Elizabeth, overhearing. "I _don't_ want to spend it with Grandmother and the Woman---though I suppose we must. But I feel I can't have an ordinary Christmas after last year."

"What did you do last year?" Anne wanted to know.

"We went to Midnight Mass at Sacre Coeur." Little Elizabeth thrilled to the tips of her toes at the memory. "It was _so_ magical, Miss Shirley! Father got me a bicycle and a flower press---"

"And you got me a book and a lovely silk tie," said Pierce. "And we had croissants and hot chocolate at a café on Christmas morning and---"

"Went ice skating by the River Seine!" Little Elizabeth finished. "Oh, Papa, it was wonderful! We _can't _have an ordinary Christmas after that! It just--wouldn't--be _right_."

"It would be an affront to the gods," said Pierce Grayson gravely, scandalizing Susan, who was passing through with a soup tureen that almost met its end. "I would so like to spend Christmas _here_ in the Glen," he said, his eyes taking on a dreamy look. "It is so---like the little village I come from. Mrs. Blythe, I did not live in a grand house on the hill always. I spent my youth in a fishing village a ways down the shore road--quite near the Blair Water. It was very like this, though---with the smell of salt and spices in the air always."

"But," he finished with a rueful smile. "We could not impose on your hospitality any longer. No, Mrs. Blythe, do not object! You are having visitors and, forgive my noticing it, but you are not in any condition to be wearing yourself out over us."

"A sensible man," Susan muttered, somewhat forgiving him his earlier sacrilege.

"If only there was a house to let until the New Year," Pierce mused. "We could manage quite well on our own, don't you think, Elizabeth darling?"

"I do," Little Elizabeth avowed.

Anne's mouth quivered into a smile and her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"I think I know just the place."

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Thanks for reviews! Oh, this was a fun chapter to write---I missed all of the old characters. I wonder why LMM didn't include them more in the other books? Especially Phil and Reverend Jo. And I think you all know how I feel about Little Elizabeth! She's obviously one of my favorites.

Terreis: oh, thanks! Miss Cornelia is a fun one to write. And I don't know if I will write about the twins' experience in Dora's wedding--I really don't think I'm going to spend _much_ time writing about the old Green Gables folks, since they are pretty much covered in the other books. But there will be _some_ Green Gables! AND UPDATE ON CHRIS SOON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Miri: The twins would have been about three when Shirley was born, so I'm stretching it. They're probably about two at this point in the story, but I had a two year old as my flower girl! (It didn't work out so well). Anyway, they are the only little girls in the family, so Dora will have to just use them.

Suzanne: I'm glad you read it and liked it!

Yzmakitty: Thanks for the suggestions! I will try to work as many of them in as I can.


	4. 4

Katherine Brooke wore pants—sensible khaki slacks with copious pockets in which she could keep a compass, a magnifying glass, and the skinny black cigarettes she had ruefully taken to smoking. This was decades before any other woman in the Glen had picked up on that trend and it was regarded not as a novelty but as positively obscene. She did not even wear a dress to church! She wore smooth, tailored black trousers and a crisp white blouse. Kitty Alec said she would not darken the doors of the Presbyrtarian church again if they were going to condone that sort of modern behavior. For which Miss Cornelia was grateful and held to Katherine's credit. Even if she herself did not approve of the pants. For Susan's part, she accepted this flaw in stride as much as she could.

"At least she does not show too much skin," she reasoned grimly. "The dresses are getting shorter and shorter nowadays."

The parts of Katherine's skin that did show were smooth and brown. Her eyes were bordered by thin lines that gave her the appearance of always smiling—her hair was a sleek dark cap, cut as short as a man's. But it suited her more than her spiky updo of old. And yet, as Old Highland Sandy put it, "If 'tweren't for the bosoms you'd nae think she was a gurrl!" What a stir she caused wherever she went!

The Ingleside children loved her. Katherine was full of stories of exotic, places—when she entered a room, it seemed full of hidden spices. She was forever reaching into her pockets and absently jangling loose coins—coins from strange lands, coins emblazoned with camels and palm trees and landmarks from half the world over. Which she gladly gave to Jem for his collection and helped him paste into his book.

And yet she was not brazen in the least. She seemed not to notice the ruckus she caused, and wore her denim and smoked her cigarettes matter-of-factly, as if she could not help but do it. Even Susan forgot about them after a while. She had the most charming way of putting her slim hand up to support her long, tanned neck, as if it was too much work to hold it up without the help. Her eyes were languid and insouciant, and when she was nervous she fiddled with an amulet on a long black string around her neck. She had the most interesting way of saying, "When I was in the gardens of the Alhambra," or "When I was in Peru," the same way other ladies talked about going to Charlottetown or Halifax for the day.

Her big black dog, Rialto, followed her everywhere she went and slept on the foot of her bed, to the scandalized Susan's horror. "Do you remember when you gave him to me, Anne?" Katherine laughed. "What a fat, chubby bundle he was then?" Then she tossed him the last of her breakfast bacon, which Rialto caught expertly in his mouth. Susan clutched her chest and retreated into the kitchen. _It was not her place..._

Anne just laughed and squeezed her friend's hand. "You darling thing," she said. _Could_ this be the jealous, petty, sad-eyed Katherine of long ago? "I'm so glad you've come!"

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The only time at all when Katherine seemed like the old Katherine Brooke of the Summerside days was when Little Elizabeth and Pierce joined them for the occasional meal. Safely installed in the House of Dreams, they ate most of their meals there. At first Anne was afraid they did not want to impose, and urged them to come up and eat with the family more often.

"Thank you, Miss Shirley," Little Elizabeth said seriously, "But oh, please don't be hurt when I say we'd much—_prefer_—to eat at home. Yes, home! The House of Dreams just feels like home, the moment you step foot in it, doesn't it? I quite enjoy cooking for Father—or, well, _trying_ to cook."

"Elizabeth's burnt toast is ambrosia to me. Although the hearth at the House of Dreams isn't half as pleasant without _your_ company," said Pierce with a dashing grin. "With the doctor to talk politics with—and you ladies to look at—" he smiled at Anne and Katherine and graciously included Susan in his smile—"And the children tumbling about and these two china sentries keeping vigilant watch over it all."

Anne couldn't put her finger on _why_, but Katherine seemed to retreat into herself when the two came down for the evening. While the others swapped stories, she sat stiffly on the sofa, fiddling with her amulet and pretending to read a travel magazine. Whenever Pierce tried to include her in the conversation she was bitingly stern.

"And you are a travel writer yourself, Miss Brooke?" A question asked pleasantly enough, but met with a curt reply.

"Oh, I have had a few things published, likely to fill the space, I suppose."

"You are too humble! I read your article on the excavation of the tombs in the Valley of the Kings. It was grippingly exciting—I felt I was there myself."

"_You_ are too _kind_," said Katherine harshly. "I long for fresh air—come, Rialto."

When Katherine was alone with Little Elizabeth she looked at her with a sort of yearning in her eyes—once or twice her hand hovered over the girl's fine, white hair as if she longed to touch it but dared not allow herself to come too close.

"I wish I could figure out _why_," Anne mourned to Gilbert while dressing for bed one night. "Pierce is ever so charming—yes, I _have_ grown to like him, really!—and he and Katherine would get along so well if only she were not so prickly with him."

"Perhaps she is in love with him," said Gilbert carelessly.

"Gilbert! Never! Katherine Brooke once told me she 'had no use' for the men. It is one of the points on which she and Miss Cornelia most ardently agree."

"Then I can't make heads nor tails of it," yawned the doctor. "Perhaps she just doesn't _like _him. Not—everyone—is meant to be friends. Well, I'm beat, Anne-girl—I delivered two babies today—good night."

"But they _should_ be friends," Anne murmured to herself as Gilbert fell into sleep. "Oh, I hate it when my friends don't love _each other_."

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Anne thought Katherine would find the Glen and its environs very boring after all of her travels. But she did not seem to—she was always out and about doing _something_. She went on a snowshoe trample with Jem and brought back armfuls of garlands and holly to decorate the house. She skated with Walter, and romped in the snow with the twins. She and Susan had still not reconciled their fundamental differences, but Katherine and Miss Cornelia were kindred from the start. Miss Cornelia had heard all about Katherine's love-starved childhood, and it struck her deeply.

"I suppose I gravitate toward people who have been unhappy," that matron admitted. "But it's only because I want to make sure they don't go back to it."

"You're good at it, Miss Cornelia," Anne told her. "Look what you did for Leslie! And isn't Katherine a dear?"

"She is. And I suspect you had as much to do with Leslie's coming out of her shell as I did, Anne. But I enjoy talking to Katherine—Marshall does, too. Send her over anytime."

So Katherine put on her snowshoes and tramped to the tidy little house in Four Winds whenever she could.

It was when she was coming back from one of these rambles that she met a solitary little figure in her path. Katherine would have liked to turn away but she could not. She had been spotted.

"Miss Brooke!" Little Elizabeth cried. "Oh, it's lovely to see you. I'm on my way to Ingleside—and I was just thinking about you."

"Were you?" said Katherine, a trifle rudely. "What_ever_ about?"

Little Elizabeth did not seem to notice the cold edge in her voice but Katherine heard it and was ashamed.

"I was thinking about how 'Katherine' is a name quite like 'Elizabeth,'" Little Elizabeth explained.

"They aren't a whit alike." Katherine wrinkled her brow.

"We—e—ell, not on the _outside_," said Little Elizabeth seriously. "But you see, there are ever so many nicknames you can make from Elizabeth. Lydia, Lisa, Bessie and Beth...Katherine is the same. You can be Kathy, or Kitty, or Kate, or Kat, Katrin or Katya or Erin or Rina. Do you ever feel like Kate when you are happy?"

"I am Kitty when I am happy," Katherine said, beginning to marvel at this young creature. "I'm only 'Kat' when I feel saucy and defiant—I'm Kate when I'm being petty and childish and _low_. I—feel—like I have been that way with you until now, Little Elizabeth, and I'm sorry. I just get prickly sometimes and I can't help it. It's a bad habit. Little Elizabeth," Katherine turned to her, "I want you to know I like you very much."

"Oh, you can call me Betty right now," said Little Elizabeth blithely. "I was almost feeling like Lizzy before because I thought you _didn't _like me. I've never felt like Lizzy yet, but I _almost_ did. I'm so glad I didn't have to!"

"I understand," said Katherine gravely. "I can _never_ feel like a Kathy."

"Who could?" Little Elizabeth wanted to know.

"You are a very interesting young woman," Katherine said. "I suppose—that's why—I was prickly with you. _I_ wasn't very interesting when I was your age, Elizabeth—I mean, Betty _darling_. And I was ugly and unlovable to boot. Little Elizabeth, _you_ can't possibly understand—but I hadn't anyone to love me for ever so long."

"I think you'd be surprised," said Little Elizabeth with shining eyes, and began to sketch out the details of her life before her father had come for her.

"So that is why—underneath my jealousy—I felt that _something_ about you was like me," Katherine said pensively.

"Yes," Little Elizabeth agreed. "It's because we both know that sadness never _really_ goes away—it is always there—underneath. Oh, Miss Brooke, you're _so_ nice. I hope we'll be friends after this. You'll think this is silly—"

"I won't!"

"—but I've been having the nicest sort of dream since I met you. I never knew my own mother, you know, but I imagine that if I had to have a mother _now_, she'd be like you. You never talk to me like I am a child—and you stand up to father—and he _likes_ you, he really does, I can tell—and you're so _int'resting_, Miss Brooke, and I love you!"

"I don't think that's silly at all," said Katherine. Her cheeks were hot with a fiery blush. "In fact, since I met you, I was thinking that if I had a little girl, she'd be like _you_. And I think I could love you quite a lot if I let myself, Elizabeth."

"Then you _should_," said Elizabeth.

"Then I will," said Katherine, a bit recklessly.

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Thanks for the reviews, guys.

I'm doing national novel writing month, so this might be my last update for a few weeks. I promise I'm working on Cecilia too. I'd never give her up.


	5. 5

"It's a night like this that always makes me think of the Holy Family," said Miss Cornelia, wrestling with her ever-present knitting, in front of a roaring Ingleside hearthfire. "How cold it must've been in that stable that Christmas night."

"I believe that part of the world is mostly desert, actually," said the doctor gravely.

"Well, think of the heat, then!" was Miss Cornelia's snappy retort. "Either way, it couldn't have been pleasant."

"Actually, you're both right," said Katherine, laying on her stomach on the hearthrug with little Elizabeth, pouring over the map of Fairyland. "In those desert regions near Nazareth, it's very hot in the day—but cold in the night. Although there is no snow—it's not moist enough."

"Imagine a Christmas without snow," said Walter drowsily. "How could God let that happen, Mummy?"

"God has let far worse things happen in this world," was Susan's dour contribution.

"We won't have to worry about that this year, Walt, young fellow," said Pierce from his place by the window where he watched the thick, downy flakes come down. "This is a fierce storm—it's expected to last for two days, and it will be Christmas by then."

"It _does_ look fierce," Anne worried. "Miss Cornelia, I worry about you and Marshall out in that sledge—though I know I shouldn't. No one handles a sledge like Marshall. But Pierce and Elizabeth have no sledge—you both must stay overnight. I won't have you walking back through this."

"All right," Pierce conceded. "But only if you don't go to any trouble Mrs. Blythe. Elizabeth and I will camp out with blankets in front of this fire and be snug as bugs in rugs."

"Agreed," began Anne—but was cut off by a sudden knock on the door.

"It's probably Marshall," said Miss Cornelia complacently. "Mind you don't let him in the door till he's stamped off all the snow, Anne dearie. I won't have him mussing your new carpets."

But a burly figure, quite unlike the slim Marshall, hastened in, still snow-covered, despite Susan and Miss Cornelia's protests.

First the figure unwound a muffler and revealed a pair of furry white brows—then another came off and showed a matching pair of ferocious blue eyes, bordered by fine wrinkles and creases. The hat exposed a shock of fiery red hair when the coat was unzipped, a matching red beard tumbled out and down a thick chest.

"Alexander MacAllistair!" Miss Cornelia boomed. "You must have been raised in a barn to come tramping in here in this state!"

"Well, a barn was good enough for Our Lord," boomed Highland Sandy exuberantly. Highland Sandy was always booming.

"Ye were always sae quick to get your skirts in a twist, Nellie Bryant," he went on. Then turned his attention to the cluster before the fire and clicked his heels politely. A shower of snow and ice dropped to the floor and promptly melted, to Anne's dismay.

"Miss Susan Baker—purty as a picture as always—Young Miss Grayson—Mistress Blythe, it's a pleasure to see you all. And Doctor and Mr. Grayson and all ye young Blythes—but it's Mistress Brooke I've come to see. Is Brooke a Scotch name, do ye know?"

"I—don't," said Katherine confusedly. "I think it's English, though."

"Well, we can't all be pairfect," burred Sandy, and Katherine wrinkled her brow.

"What—exactly—did you want to see me about?"

"I've got a proposal for ye," said Sandy complacently.

"A—proposal?"

"Of marriage," Sandy said with exaggerated pronunciation.

"! ! !" said the group before the fire. Without saying a word at all!

"Of marriage!" Anne fell back against the seat cushions and Susan nearly dropped the cup she was bringing to the half-frozen Alexander. Pierce Grayson's eyes darkened dangerously.

"But it won't do atall to do it here," said Sandy, looking around distastefully. "It isn't hardly romantic—Miss Brooke, might I speak to you alone?"

"I'm afraid not," said the Doctor gravely. "As Miss Brooke's host and the one who is responsible for her while she is here, I couldn't let her go off with such a strapping young man as yourself, Sandy. Whatever you have to say must be said here, in front of us."

His voice was perfectly solemn, but his sparkling eyes betrayed him. Gilbert wanted to see what was to happen just as much as anyone.

"All right, then," said Sandy. "I suppose I can say it before all of ye. Well, Miss Brooke—"

"No, thank you," said Katherine promptly.

"Ye haven't even haird what I had to say!"

"I cannot marry you," said Katherine, eyes blazing.

"Well, it isna _me_ who's asking," said Sandy indignantly.

"Who, then?" wondered Miss Cornelia, her knitting quite forgotten for once.

"It's my nephew, Hugh!" Sandy boomed again. "He's a fain young fellow, Miss Brooke, and he ain't too pairticulair—and he'll inherit the farm with Old Matilda dies. Ye've seen him at church—with the shock o' reddish hair?—he's a strapping fellow. He'll be good to ye. So?"

"No," said Katherine.

"Well, why not!" Sandy set his fist down on the mantlepiece so that Gog and Magog jumped.

"I do not care to be married to a man who can't ask me himself," said Katherine calmly.

"Well, he woulda asked if he'd thought about it," Sandy mused.

"Mr. MacAllistair! Does Hugh—know—you've come here to ask Miss Brooke to marry him?" Anne was starting to get a certain feeling about the whole situation.

"Well—nae," Sandy admitted. "But Hugh nevair had the sense ye'd give a goose! The man would forget to eat if ye didn't lead him down to the table by his hand. He hasna any gumption—he willna get married at all at this rate!"

"You make him sound terribly enticing," said Katherine sarcastically.

"Well, missy, ye can't be too choosy!" Sandy bristled. "What with the pants and the mannish hair!"

"Mr. MacAllistair!" Anne said, aghast. Miss Cornelia gasped, "Sandy, hold your _tongue_!" And Pierce Grayson jumped to his feet, trembling.

"That is no way to talk to Miss Brooke," he said passionately. "She is a fine woman—too fine for the likes of—"

"I bet ye canna even _cook_!" said Sandy, interrupting him.

Katherine went red—Anne recognized the look from the Summerside days. Katherine often aimed it at unruly pupils and it stopped them dead in their tracks. She looked as if she would lash the unfortunate Sandy with her tongue—but then she laughed.

"You're right about that," she said. "But I have a marvelous talent for choosing restaurants. Oh, Mr. MacAllistair, I'm not marrying _anyone_. I've never _thought _of being anyone's wife! _Especially_ not Hugh's. I'm sure he's a fine man and will find a wife one of these days—but it won't be me. Please, let's not talk of it again. Sit down by the fire and we'll talk of something else."

"Nae," said Sandy, sorrowfully. "I've come to say my piece and I've said it—I'll be going. To tell ye the truth, girl dear, I canna help but think ye've maid the right decision, way down in the cockles of me heart. Hugh wouldna know what to do with ye."

"Quite right," said Katherine, with a strange expression on her face.

Sandy began to wind himself back into his wraps. At the doorway he turned. "Ye wouldna marry _me_?" he asked hopefully. "If ye'll not have Hugh?"

"No," said Katherine politely. "Goodnight, Mr. MacAllistair."

And then he was gone. And the whole group sat in front of the fire in stunned silence.

"Oh, my God," said Miss Cornelia somewhat profanely. But the doctor laughed.

"Anne-girl, this reminds me of the time Jane Andrews asked you to marry her brother Billy," he chuckled. "Tell that story over to us."

Anne did, with the writerly flourishes that made Gilbert think that she should have not stopped penning her stories. Everyone listened except Katherine—and Pierce—both of whom looked distracted. Finally Katherine stood.

"I need air," she said in a strangled voice. "I'm going to go on a midnight snowshoe ramble—I need to clear my thoughts."

"I'll come with you," Pierce said immediately, and the two of them went out.

"He's going to speak," said the doctor satisfactedly.

"I'd lay money on it," said Miss Cornelia, giving him a knowing look.

"Oh, you two!" Anne stroked the sleeping Little Elizabeth's hair. "You're quite wrong. Pierce is still aching inside over his wife—and Katherine won't ever marry anyone. She's told me so dozens of times. Plus, I still think they dislike each other. It _harrows_ my soul."

"You're the smartest person I know, Anne," said the doctor with a grin. "But this time, I think, you're wrong."


	6. 6

The snowstorm had passed for the moment and the moon shone down from between parting clouds. It was so quiet and still they could hear the musical of water against ice down in the harbor. Every so often the lighthouse beam swung around and hit the pair that made their way across the little dale behind the house. The lighthouse beam was lovely and golden and warm, but not as beautiful as the pure moonlight that spilled down and pooled on the unmarred blanket of snow.

"I wonder if this is what it looks like on the moon," wondered Katherine to herself. She did not speak aloud. Her cheeks were still burning from Highland Sandy's proposal—oh, if he _was_ going to embarrass her like that, why would he do it in front of everyone—in front of Mr. Grayson?

Pierce himself seemed to realize Katherine would not relish conversation, and held his tongue, too. They walked companionably, though, occasionally reaching out to steady themselves against the other. "Careful now," Pierce said over an especially icy patch. "Whoops!" said Katherine when she caught her shoe in a branch. But that was about the extent of the exchange of words between them.

Katherine tramped for so long and so hard that Pierce thought he would keel over.

"Miss Brooke!" he said finally, laughing. "I don't know what hounds of hell are pursuing you, but I must beg you, please—stop! We must rest—just for a bit—I'm a bit lame in one leg and we've gone a long way."

"All right," Katherine acquiesced reluctantly.

They poked around until they found a patch of snowless ground under a large spruce. The encircling arms of the spruce formed a snug, fragrant little cave. If Katherine and Pierce parted the branches, they could go in and sit—which they did.

When they were settled, Pierce reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask. "Is that—it's not—whisky, is it?" asked Katherine.

"No, no! It's hot chocolate, Susan pressed it on me as we were going. Have a swig."

Katherine did. "Good, but I think I'd prefer the whisky," she said, pressing her mittened hands over her face. "Oh, God! I feel perfectly—ridiculous! Probably because I am!"

"Nonsense! You're quite the most _ir_ridiculous person I've ever met! Is that a word, Miss Former Schoolma'am? Everything about Highland Sandy shouts ridiculous—he is, you aren't—and you shouldn't let the fact that he behaved ridiculously toward you make you feel silly, Kath—er, Miss Brooke."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Pierce," said Katherine. "Enough with the Miss Brooke rigamarole. We all know I don't stand on convention—look at me! I was a fool to think I could come back to little, provincial PEI after all this. I'm not the same person I was when I last lived here—I've outgrown this place—I _am_ ridiculous, here. And I've had my first marriage proposal tonight! I hardly believed I would ever get one. And here I've gotten not one, but two! If you count Highland Sandy's. Certainly one was by proxy! And Sandy only wanted me for Hugh because he was sure I couldn't get anyone else. I'm sure, as well! I don't know which was more stupid—being on the receiving end of such a proposal or me believing anyone would ever want to marry me, seriously, in the first place."

"I'd marry you," said Pierce off-handedly.

Katherine was so absorbed in feeling sorry for herself that she did not process what he had said at first. Then she laughed and buried her face in her hands again.

"Oh, go away! You are making fun of me, too—you think this is funny—I might not be like other women and girls but we females do dream about the flowers and the trumpets and the songbirds of a marriage proposal. Laugh! Go on! But at least take that seriously!"

"I am not laughing," Pierce said. "I'm serious. And as for songbirds—and flowers—and trumpets, they're on short order now, Katherine. But will a fir tree—hot chocolate—and a very sincere feeling in my heart do?"

"You're joking," said Katherine dubiously.

"I promise you I am not," said Pierce. "I do one reckless thing every year, and this is this years.'"

"What was last year's?" Katherine wanted to know.

"I forgot to do it last year," Pierce admitted. "So it's doubly a risk."

"What if I was to do one reckless thing and accept?" Katherine challenged. Her heart was beating very fast.

"I would be very happy indeed."

"Then—I will!" said Katherine, and she kissed him.

It was the first time she had kissed anybody, and when he kissed her back it was the first time anybody had kissed her. She thought she would not have enjoyed it if it had been just anybody—but a certain thrill went through her and she realized she could love him—_would_ love him—_did_ love him!

"You—darling!" she said incredulously. "Are we really engaged now?"

"Yes!" said Pierce. "Oh, Katherine, how happy you'll be, as my wife. I've never met anyone quite like you. And Little Elizabeth will be ecstatic. She adores you. As do—as do I. When can we do it? Shall we have it here, in the Glen, or wait until we are in Paris?"

"Paris?" Katherine asked, laughing. "Who said anything about Paris?"

"It's where I live, of course. Where we'll live."

"In Paris!" Katherine pulled away. "You can't mean you expect me to live someplace so—so—civilised?"

"Why, what is wrong with Paris?" Pierce wanted to know.

"Nothing—except I never thought of living there! I never would! Paris is teeming with people—there is nothing to explore—nothing to see! I am in the middle of a series of articles about the Amazon—"

"You can't mean you think I would take my daughter on some—some—_barge_—in the jungles! You must be out of your head! We live part of the year in Paris and part of the year in Kingsport. That's the way it is. I'm nearly forty, Katherine—I feel old. And Elizabeth is only fourteen—you can't expect us to just pick up and go traipsing about!"

"And you," said Katherine hotly, "Can not expect _me_ to just—settle down!"

"If you are to be my wife—"

"If this is the way you feel, I am not _going_ to be your wife!" said Katherine in a cold tone. "And it appears you do feel that way—so I am not going to! I was stupid to think you cared about me—enough—to—to—"

She stood and fled. Anyone who has ever snowshoed knows that it is not easy to flee that way. But Katherine did her best and Pierce, sitting wearily, stubbornly, in the snow, could not make himself go after her.

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Christmas was quite dismal that year. Not only because of the coldness between Katherine and Pierce, and Elizabeth's quiet confusion at it, but for a number of different reasons. Nan and Di were fretful and fussy. Jem had not received the bicycle he asked for and was sulky. Walter was afraid of Santa Claus, and had cried all night because he didn't want a "stranger in the house." Most frighteningly, Anne had pains all morning. It was far too early for the baby to come, so Gilbert put her on strict bed rest. He was too worried to enjoy his Christmas goose, and Anne, who had to eat hers in the bedroom, was miserable at being away from the family.

After they pulled their Christmas crackers, Pierce made an announcement.

"Elizabeth and I are leaving this afternoon. We have had the most wonderful time in your house, Dr. Blythe—and Susan—but my mother-in-law has a party every boxing day and I am afraid we must be there."

"Oh, Papa, no!" Elizabeth cried. "I hate grandmother's stuffy old parties. And you said we needn't go this year!"

"My conscience has gotten the better of me," Pierce said. "It would not be right to disappoint the old lady."

"I hope Grandmother gets disappointed every day for the rest of her life," said Elizabeth crossly.

"That is not a nice thing to wish on anyone," said Pierce sharply, with a sideways glance. "Do not do so, Elizabeth dear."

"My wife will be very sad not to be able to say good-bye," said the doctor.

"It is just as well," said Pierce Grayson, "Because I would not be able to express to her in words how grateful I am to her."

They hugged and kissed everyone—well, almost everyone. Little Elizabeth was afraid of the hunted, angry look in dear Miss Brooke's eyes and could not go near her. She hid her face in her father's coat and whispered, "Good-bye."

"I wish you the best of luck with your travels," said Pierce to Katherine, but he did not move to touch her, either, not she to him. And he stressed the last word in his sentence with a weight that none of them could understand.

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Anne was finally allowed downstairs in the evening, when she was feeling much better. She was allowed to sit up as long as she did not stand or in any way over-extend herself. Miss Cornelia stopped over with gifts for the young folks. After they had been distributed, she plopped down on the couch with her ever-present knitting and began her stream of near-incessant chatter.

"So Mr. Grayson and Little Elizabeth are gone! I wish I'd gotten a chance to see them before they left—I've got a pair of striped stockings for Little Elizabeth. I know the young folk usually don't like them, but she actually asked for a pair! Said they don't have them in Paris, and her friends will all be jealous. I don't want to foster jealousy, but it's hard to refuse that child anything, and that's the plain truth. She's so appealing. And I had that nice red and black yarn. She pronounced Paris "Par-_ee_," too. Such a worldly child, jaunting off all over the place! I've never been out of this province, except to go to Montreal, and Halifax! Can you imagine all that traveling! You, too, Miss Brooke—It sounds like great fun when you're young but don't you think one day you'd rather settle down? How that burgundy dress suits you! With your hair combed down so smooth—you look sleek as a kitten, if a little too skinny. Why, Katherine Brooke! What on earth—are you crying?"

"Dearest!" a stern glance from Gilbert stopped Anne from jumping up. "Whatever is the matter?"

"I _do_ want to settle down!" Katherine cried. "Oh, if you only knew—I never knew how much! I do want a house, and babies—and china dogs like these! I should have accepted him! No matter what the cost!"

"Accepted—him? Highland Sandy!" Miss Cornelia's hand went to her throat and her knitting was forgotten for once.

"No! Not him! Mr. Grayson asked me to marry him and I said no!"

"You—did!" Anne breathed.

"I knew it!" crowed Miss Cornelia.

"Everyone, please calm down!" shouted the doctor. And then said, sternly, to his wife, who had jumped up despite her orders and was comforting the weeping Katherine, "Anne, you must sit. Every minute on your feet could make you more unwell. Jem, please go get Miss Brooke a hanky. And Katherine, you tell us what happened."

Katherine told the whole story. Susan shook her head and went out to answer the door. People _would_ stop by on Christmas night, even when they knew they shouldn't be disturbing decent people. If it was Marshall Elliot come for Miss Cornelia she _would _give him a lecture about using the front door! Who ever heard of it, in this weather? Tramping wet all through the house!

Anne listened to Katherine with a deprecating little smile on her face. So—Gilbert had been right! How had she not seen it? One glance at her husband told her that she would never live this down!

"And I _do_ love him," Katherine finished up, with a very undignified sniff. "And I was just being—stubborn—I suppose—or I don't know! I don't know what came over me. Only now he's gone and I'm more miserable than I've ever been—more miserable than I could be in a thousand Parises! Like Ruth said to Naomi, _Whither thou goest, I will go!_ I'd go to the ends of the earth with him!"

"We'll use that as our marriage vows, then," laughed a voice—a happy voice—a voice that sounded like he'd been handed the world on a silver plate. That's what it was like, hearing those words, to Pierce Grayson—only better.

"Oh!" In a flurry of taffeta, Katherine hitched her skirts up and bounded across the room to leap into Pierce's arms. She was wearing her heavy black boots, instead of her slippers, with the dress. She covered his face with kisses. Shamelessly, Susan thought. Adorably, thought everyone else.

"I'll go with you to Paris," she said, her face buried against his neck.

"And I'll go with you to Peru," said Pierce, laying his against her shining hair. "That's what I came back to tell you."

"Really!"

"Yes," Pierce laughed. "Little Elizabeth was quite angry with me when she heard I'd used her as an excuse. She wants to go to the Music Conservatory in Bern next year and had been fretting about leaving me alone. So we'll spend the fall and winter tramping about, and the summer and spring in Paris. She'll be there for four years—and then she'll be grown and she'll want to go and do things for herself—and if we have babies of our own, we'll strap them to our backs along with the rest of the things we're toting. Darling, aren't we going to be happy?"

"Yes!"

"And I thought they hated one another!" Anne said to herself, and laughed.


	7. 7

By the time the daffodils bloomed, Anne had perked up so much that it surprised everyone, even the doctor. Of course he still kept close watch on her and frowned when she spent too much time out of doors. And he would not hear of her on her hands and knees in the garden! A gardener came up from the Glen daily to tend the flower beds, and Anne found it a very unsatisfactory experience to sit and watch. But when Gilbert reminded her of the alternative, she acquiesced.

Besides, it was better than nothing to sit on the verandah and watch the clouds scuttle across the sky—to smell growing things in the salt breeze that came up from the harbor—to watch her flowers nod their heads at her companionably. She set herself up there everyday, usually with Walter by her feet, with a book or a sheaf of letters. She was just finishing up reading one of those letters, and laid it on her lap with a sigh.

"I love this time of year," she said, uneccesarily, to Susan. Everyone knew how much Mrs. Dr. Blythe loved the spring—more than any other time of year. Miss Cornelia, who had come up to visit, as she did so many of those afternoons, nodded approvingly.

"You are looking better, Anne dearie, though you're still a bit peaked. You're springing. Everyone feels better when winter is done and finished with."

"I have always considered Winter just as much a friend as Spring," said Anne. "She is a colder, more aloof friend—not as kind and gentle as my lady Spring, but just as beautiful, in her own way, and possibly more alluring. I hate to think that Winter and I are at odds with one another."

Susan did not like to hear such talk; if a stranger were to hear it, they would think Mrs. Dr, dear was off her head. "Will not you tell us what is in that letter from Miss Brooke?" For all of Miss Brooke's inappropriateness in Susan's mind, the old maid was quite enraptured with the whole romance. She had never witnessed one firsthand before.

"Oh, Susan, of course I will! It's so wonderful! She and Pierce were married at Kingsport last week, you know. I so would have loved to be there—but of course I couldn't. Anyway, he wanted to do it in Paris, but Elizabeth wanted to have her Grandmother there—to shock her, I think. And Katherine and Pierce were quite amenable to that—they see Mrs. Campbell as a dour old fussball and Katherine delights in shocking her. Of course Old Mrs. Campbell thinks Katherine is none too good for Pierce, though she didn't think him too good himself when he married her own daughter. Anyway, they're off to Paris at the end of the month."

"And are they taking a honeymoon, dearie?" Miss Cornelia wanted to know.

"The whole world is their honeymoon, Miss Cornelia. Some people never leave that stage, you know. They will be on their honeymoon for their whole life together."

"Marshall and I went to Charlottetown for ours," said Miss Cornelia. "But I understand what you mean, Anne, dearie. I think you and the doctor are like that—I do. Anne? Is something the matter?"

"Do you have a pain, Mrs. Dr., dear?" Susan worried.

"Actually, Susan—I do. A quite bad one." Anne winced. "Where is the doctor?"

"Over-harbor," said Miss Cornelia. "You don't think that—"

"I do, possibly," said Anne.

"I shall telephone up to the Glen and get someone to fetch him—and the nurse," said Susan grimly, and, with an extra hurried step, went to do just that.

"Don't be frightened, Anne, dearie," said Miss Cornelia brightly—more brightly than she felt. "It's far too early for a baby. Likely it is just indigestion."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was not "just indigestion," as Miss Cornelia had thought, evidenced by the doctor's grim face and set lips as he descended the stairs to Susan's kitchen.

"It will be a long night," he said. "Perhaps you should arrange to have the children go to Miss Cornelia's--and--and perhaps you should call over to Green Gables--tell them not to tarry--" Those words were scarcely uttered when Gilbert was gone, taking the stairs two at a time.

It was the last part that struck fear into Susan's heart. Surely--if they were calling Green Gables--so urgently--? But Susan could not believe that anything could possibly happen to Mrs. Dr. Dear. Had not she come through when--when little Joyce had not? And that had been a difficult birth. There had been four babies since then--surely this time would be easier?

_Not so_, said the doctor's harried eyes when he rushed downstairs and placed a hasty call. _Not so, _ said his white face as he returned upstairs with the little nurse.

Every tick of the clock seemed to pierce the mistress of the Ingleside kitchen's very soul.

Susan could not crochet the little bootees she was making for the child. She could not think fondly of the child when a nurse had just been down--and had shaken her head! Did not she know that they did not shake their heads lightly at Ingleside? But then the doctor had stepped out of the room and had done the same. Susan saw him from the landing. She could not prepare for a child that may cost its mother her life--no one had spoken those words, of course, but Susan thought herself very perceptive, and she knew that the prolonged silence from the upstairs room meant not well. No, she would not crochet those infernal bootees! She threw them down!

For once in her life, Susan Baker found herself completely idle. She could not work, but wandered listlessly through the house, surveying every room. Mrs. Dr. dear, seemed to be in every brick and stone of that blessed house--she was there, in the cluster of crocuses arranged in a glass bowl on the mantle--she was there in the bit of embroidery hanging over the arm of the sofa--she was there in the careful planning of lists and menus on her writing desk.

Even more than that, she was in the little things. The paper snowflakes on the parlor windows that they had forgotten to take down--the little spots of ink on the desk-blotter--the neat lacing of Jem's Sunday boots and the dainty hemstitch of the napkins that were folded on the sideboard.

_What would Ingleside do without her?_

Susan stood stock still at the thought. She was horrified at having thought it in the first place--and more horrified at the idea that it might be a reality, after this dreadful night. What _would_ Ingleside do without her?

Susan sat back down at her scrubbed kitchen table and gingerly placed her hands together. She would pray--she would pray with all her might and mead. "Then it is up to You," she reminded the kitchen ceiling. "Surely--surely joy will cometh in the morning, before the cock crows thrice."

In her current state of mind, one could forgive Susan mixing her Biblical metaphors.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was not the cock's crow that awakened Susan in the morning, but a higher, thinner cry. She bolted upright and knew not, at first, where she was--she had never slept anywhere but her own bed before. And here she was, at the kitchen table, all askew--when it might be all over by now--when the doctor was coming down the stairs with a heavy tread! Susan clutched at her chest and wondered wildly if this was what it felt like to have an epileptic fit.

It _was_ over--the doctor was grim but relief shone in his eyes--he was placing a small bundle in Susan's suddenly steady arms.

"She lives," he said, at the same moment a ray of morning sun came through the half-shut curtain and lit on the sleeping baby's face. "It will be touch and go for a few days--until she gets her strength back--but she is alive. Call to Miss Cornelia's--tell her to tell the children they have a new brother. This baby will need extra care, Susan, for such a small fellow. I hope it will not be a strain on you."

His tone was light enough, but if she had listened hard enough Susan could have heard everything he did not say but knew in his heart...that this birth had cost Anne her strength, probably permanently--that she may never again be the vital woman they loved--that when she had awoken from her stupor she had asked for little Joyce. But Susan was not listening so she did not hear. Something was stirring within her--welling up from the pit of her stomach, the soles of her feet--she felt light-headed--she was completely and totally in love with the little baby with the swarthy little skin and the kicking pink feet that she held in her arms. She had never seen anything so tiny--she would knit him all the bootees in the world. Oh, how his little brown eyes seemed already to know her!

"My little boy!" she cried. "Oh, my little brown boy!"


	8. 8

It was some time before Anne came to herself again. One the first day she was pale and wan—on the second fitful and feverish—her deep and restless sleep continued for so long that Gilbert feared it was coma—but on the seventh day after the baby had been born he came into her chamber to see the little nurse propping his wife up on pillows so that she could look out of the window at her garden. That had been her own request.

"Tell me, Gilbert," said Anne, weakly laughing, "How long have I been asleep? Did I miss the rest of spring—and summer—and fall—and wake up in winter? My poor little garden is frozen and covered with drifts."

"There was a late storm," said Gilbert, crossing to her, and sitting by her bed, quite weak with relief himself.

"A late snowstorm is always bewitching," Anne mused. "It is Winter's jealous reminder that she is more powerful than Spring, and just as beautiful. But oh! My poor daffodils! Gilbert," her lower lip trembled, "No one has said anything to me about the baby."

"He is sleeping in his cradle, with a full little belly," said Gilbert reassuringly. "Susan is rocking the cradle with her foot, and is on her third pair of knitted bootees for him. She has taken to calling him 'Shirley'—we all have—after you. It suits him."

"Shirley!" Anne rolled the name thoughtfully on her tongue. "And I had so many beautiful names picked out! Of course I was hoping he might be a girl, so I could call him after my own mother—isn't 'Bertha' such a beautiful name? But if he was a boy, which he is, I thought we might call him Cuthbert, for Marilla. She would be so pleased. What do you think of that?"

"I think," said the doctor gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye, "That I am rather glad Susan had the naming of him."

"Oh, Gilbert! Cuthbert is such _romantic_ name! And he could be 'Bertie' as a youth—'Bert' when he grew up."

"Susan would say, right now, if she were here, 'Bertie! As if he were a Drew of Lower Glen instead of a Blythe of Ingleside!' And Cuthbert is a dreadful name with which to saddle a child, my darling little silly wife. I had enough trouble giving it to Walter as a second name, not to mention giving it to another son as a first. When you see him, Anne, you'll agree—he is a Shirley, through and through."

"I suppose we'll stick with it, then," said Anne. "We can't fight our fate with names, no matter how much 'Anne' wants to be 'Cordelia.' Gilbert, the boys—and the twins?"

"Marilla took them with her to Green Gables. No, Anne, it was not an intrusion. You know how glad she and Mrs. Rachel are to have them. Davy's Millie will help them take care of them. Susan has her hands full with the baby—he really is a wee fellow—and you will not be well enough to care for them for some time, dearest."

"Gilbert—I—I _don't_ feel very well. The room seems all tilted and is black around the edges. When I move I'm dizzy—am I—am I _quite_ all right?"

The nurse tactfully sidled to the door and closed it, and stood respectfully outside and waited. She did not envy Dr. Blythe his task now—it was never easy to tell someone that they would never be quite well again. And it was especially hard when the patient had been as vibrant and bright as Mrs. Dr. Blythe had been—poor Mrs. Dr. Blythe!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was old Dr. Dave that had made the final diagnosis—he shook his head.

"A waste," he said. "Ah, Gilbert, there might be something done for her but it's risky, boy—it's certainly a risk."

An operation might save Anne's strength, he explained. There was evidence of some bleeding of the internal organs—some weakness about the heart and lungs. If she did not have it she would remain weak for the rest of her life—which would be pathetically shortened. But, of course, she might not survive an operation.

Gilbert told all of this to Anne while he stroked her white hand and watched her face as she struggled with the news. He told it to her simply and straightforwardly—not as a doctor to a patient, or husband to a wife, but as one intelligent soul that was capable of making a decision to another. Then he sat back and waited.

"It's up to you, Anne," he said. "My medical knowledge only extends so far, and in this case, I don't know which course would be the best."

"So you are saying," said Anne shakily, "You are saying that if I don't have it I will die—but that if I do—I _could_ die."

"Yes," said Gilbert briefly.

"And if I decide _not_ to?"

"Then there will be no more afternoons in your garden, Anne. You will be confined to your bed most of the time. You might be allowed to sit up downstairs for an occasional meal but it would weaken you and tire you out to the point of exhaustion. No playing with the children—you would never be strong enough to run after them. We would have to hire a nanny to help Susan. And there could be no more—children—in general. No walking—not anyplace, ever again. Your heart could not stand it. You would need a wheel-chair."

"Imagine not being able to walk down to the shore—or to ramble through to Hester Gray's garden when we visited Avonlea!"

"There would be no more visits to Avonlea, my darling. You would not survive the journey."

Anne's eyes welled with frustrated tears. "You are trying to scare me."

"Dearest Anne, I am being as perfectly honest and forthright as I can be. I thought you would appreciate knowing exactly where things stand."

"And I do, Gilbert, forgive me being cross. It just—isn't—_nice_ to be told everything will change—and not for the better."

They sat in silence a long while. Presently, the nurse brought Shirley to them and laid him in Anne's arms. They examined him together—marveling over his dimpled hands—his turned-up nose—his smooth, unblemished skin. They did it silently, though, sharing looks, not words. For a moment they were almost like any other pair of new parents in the world. But then Anne spoke.

"Suppose I _did_ have the operation?"

"Then you would most likely regain your entire strength," said Gilbert honestly. "You could be just as you were—before."

"There could be more children?"

"I would not recommend it, but theoretically, yes."

Anne wrinkled her brow and met Gilbert's hazel eyes with her own clear gray. "You said 'most likely' I would regain strength. But there is a chance I wouldn't."

"Yes. There is that chance. It is a risky endeavour, Anne."

"Ring for Susan," Anne said.

After a long moment, that woman appeared at the foot of Anne's bed. If Anne was pale and wan, Susan was wearing the garment of motherhood for her. She was simply radiant—well, as radiant as an old maid with a halo of frizzled gray hair could be.

"Is he not sweet, Mrs. Dr. dear?" asked Susan proudly, as if it were her own baby she was referring to.

"He is impossibly sweet," said Anne. "Susan, I don't know what the doctor has told you about my—condition—"

"Nearly everything, Mrs. Dr. dear, only my mind cannot comprehend much of the medical jargon—"

"I am going to have an operation, Susan, and it will be quite dangerous. If, for some reason, I cannot come—home—afterwards, I want you to take care of my dear little ones for me. But especially this little fellow, Susan—he hasn't had much of a chance to get to know me and it hurts me to think he might never know a mother's love."

"I am not a mother," Susan pointed out, gravely, "But I shall show him enough love that he thinks he has twelve. You will be fine, though, Mrs. Dr. dear."

"I know," said Anne. "You may feed him and put him to bed now, Susan—dear Susan."

"That was a noble thing to do," said Gilbert, to his wife.

"I shall do another," said Anne, with a feeble smile. "Gilbert, if I do—_die_—you may marry again. I won't be like Ella Flagg over-harbor who made her husband sign a contract that he wouldn't. But—and this is where my ever-present vanity wins out—she must be a homely girl—she mustn't be prettier than me, darlingest! And if she has raven hair—I'll—_haunt_ you!"

"Red hair," said the doctor, "Is, to me, the finest hue of hair. And no one could be prettier than you, Anne."


	9. 9

It could seem, to those who did not intimately know the Blythes, that they were treating the whole thing rather carelessly. Kitty Alec Douglas of the Upper Glen remarked that surely Mrs. Blythe's condition couldn't be as serious as they all said. Not when she was receiving visitors! And Rory Murray had seen Anne trussed up in a sledge with the doctor only yesterday. They had been racing—well, if not racing, then definitely driving along—up a hill, and Mrs. Dr. Blythe had been laughing. She was pale—yes, but did a woman on the brink of death _laugh_?

Those who knew Anne defended her. "Should she cry in her pillow and give up hope instead?" asked Myra Murray of her sister-in-law. And Miss Cornelia had bitten the head off of the widow Douglas.

"Some folks can't help but have a good time," she said hotly. "But _you _wouldn't know a good time if it bit you on the bonnet, Kitty."

Anne _was_ rather overexerting herself, but the doctor allowed it. Who knew if—_when—_she would be able to do these things again? He turned a permissive eye on the afternoon callers after Anne had maintained that she wanted them—she wanted to talk and chatter and laugh as if nothing were wrong. She wanted her house to be filled with life and laugher for as long as possible.

The boys and the twins were brought up from Green Gables with Marilla and Mrs. Rachel, who came for a visit. Anne had the spare room made up for them, but Marilla would not think of imposing at such a time. She and Mrs. Rachel stayed in a hotel in town—the first time either of them had done such a thing. Neither could sleep on the lumpy, unfamiliar mattress and Mrs. Rachel had sat up with her umbrella in her hand all night, guarding the door, "just in case," while recounting all the stories she had ever heard of people being murdered in or near hotels.

It was as gay and madcap a week as they could possibly have. Anne could not do much running around—and she was often white and out of breath—but the happiest moments were in the small, quiet things anyway. The moments she spent knitting with Marilla—each of their tiny stitches perfectly matching the others' in delicacy and refinement—stroking Walter's hair as he fell asleep in Anne's lap—seeing the symmetry in the faces of Gilbert and Little Jem as they read before the fire. She loved to hear the twins talk and laugh in the kitchen with Susan—how lovely their laughs were! Nan's was like a silver peal and Small Diana's a golden trumpet. And it was perfectly perfect to sit in the evenings with the baby—who Anne had to admit was most definitely a Shirley—and watch him. He had the fullest, velvetiest cheeks and his eyelashes were like fans.

"But of course all good things must come to an end," breathed Anne, her hand pressed tightly to her chest. She had a pain—she so frequently had a pain there these days. She could not tell if it was an actual physical symptom or because her heart felt full to brimming over. In any event, she would be moved on the morrow to the hospital in Charlottetown.

"In an automobile, Mummy?" asked Jem excitedly. "In a real automobile!"

Anne could not keep the situation from the children but she and Gilbert had outlined it in only the simplest terms—Mummy had a pain and Mummy must go to the hospital to get better. They did not think—wouldn't dream of thinking—that she might not come home again. They were charmed children, leading blessed lives, and nothing could touch them when they were safe behind the walls of that old fortress Ingleside. Surely, one day they would learn that these walls were penetrable by danger, fear and evil—but oh, Anne hoped, not for a while—not for a while yet!

"I _don't_ want to be the reason for that realization," she maintained.

How incongruous this night was—the moon made a path on the still-fallen blanket of snow—but there was the distinctly spring-y smell of growing things on the air. Gilbert had set bowls of hothouse roses around the room—but outside the crocuses were sticking their poor, pale heads up through the whiteness, and Anne loved them more because they looked so weak and out-of-place. She loved the very shadows that danced on the new-papered walls—she loved the baby's soft snuffling in his sleep—she loved the lamplight in the hallway—she loved the very smell and _feel _of the house as it watched over them all.

"To think," she choked, "That this might be my last night at Ingleside—_ever_."

Oh, she shouldn't cry! She really shouldn't! Suppose she woke one of the children and it frightened them? And hadn't Gilbert said just this morning that she was being "so brave?" She mustn't let him down—she really _shouldn't_—but—

"But sometimes you just _have_ to have a cry," Anne said, and so she did.

It was just a little cry—really no one could fault her for it in her present situation—and it was really more of an acknowledgement of the beauty—and splendor—and happiness of life than it was a _cry _of fear or sadness. When Anne gulped her finally sob and wiped away the last tear, Gilbert came in and sat on the edge of her bed.

Together they made plans, as if nothing was liable to change on the morrow. As if they did not stand on the cusp of a beginning—or ending. Gilbert would hire painters to come in next month—what color would Anne prefer for the sitting room? He himself was partial to a gray-blue—the same color of the sea through the windows and Anne agreed. Oh, and they _must_ enroll Jem for the next school term—he was getting quite too old to stay at home and be babied by Susan! And how would Anne feel about going to Vancouver a little later in the year? There would be a medical conference there and they could take a few extra days…

"I'd love it," Anne smiled.

"We can never get along without her," Gilbert was thinking.

"Or perhaps you _can_," Anne feared.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Miss Cornelia came up to see Anne and the doctor off next morning. She was smiling brightly, but when the car had rounded the bend and gone out of sight her pleasant face crumpled. She sat heavily down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands.

"You've every right to shoo me from your kitchen, Susan Baker," she admitted, "But don't—please don't. I'll fall to pieces from worrying if I'm away. I'm not going to get anything done until—until we hear, and I know you won't either, and it's the Sabbath day, so we've got that as an excuse. Susan, sit down, and let's be idle and worried together."

Susan had to admit it sounded companionable, but she had to decline. Dishes must be washed and children fed no matter who departed this life and when. Besides, she had made a promise to Mrs. Dr., dear. She must keep it.

"But I do not grudge a seat at this table, Cornelia Bryant," she said, quite distractedly. "Oh, the happy times we have had about it—the happy, happy times!"

"_Such_ happy times," agreed Miss Cornelia lovingly.

"For heaven's sake, she isn't dead yet!" said Miss Cuthbert, coming in upon the maudlin scene.

"Nor is she likely to be," said Mrs. Rachel, close behind her. "I read a magazine article last month—it really is shameful how much I read them now, instead of the good book. But then, you can only read that over so many times and it's never changing. When the magazines put out a new issue every month. Any how, the article said people with red hair have "solid constitutions." They're stronger than most folks. Anne will likely be fine. Most red-headed people are, and you'll see it's true if you look back through all the ones you know. Oh, except for Eva Blythe. She had that flaming red hair and died of consumption at fourteen. And Rose Pye. Rose Pye died of strep throat at eight. Her hair was like—well, lots of them _are_ fine."

"So are lots of people with brown hair or blonde," said Miss Cornelia wearily. "I don't believe there's any connexion."

"I've never had anyone I know get an operation before," Marilla admitted. "Mostly folks seem to either die or get better. My mother refused to let me have my tonsils out when I was small because she didn't want the doctors to 'cut me up.' She thought it went against God's will, and maybe it does. Somehow it—doesn't—seem right to meddle in matters that should be determined by Providence—but I don't care. I'd sell my soul if I thought it would make Anne well."

The three other, goodly women in the kitchen tried to look shocked but could not quite manage it. At that moment, they thought, any of them would gladly do the same.

"There is not a blessed thing any of us would not do for her," said Susan drearily. "And not a thing any of us can except pray and keep faith. So let us do just that. _Look_ at little Shirley asleep. Was there ever a more blessed brown boy on God's earth?"

Miss Cornelia found herself so inspired by Susan's speech that she managed to pick up her knitting and purl a row—then another—then, finally, her hands relaxed into the familiar motion. Susan found a half-finished pair of bootees of her own and set to work. Mrs. Rachel unveiled a precarious stack of the aforementioned magazines and started hunting for the article she had read. They were good Protestant women and their work ethic would always win out in the end. They stayed that way, busy, for hours.

"After all," said Marilla, who was polishing Anne's already-polished silver, "Working is easier than—thinking—at a time like this."

They made a fine tableau for Kitty Alec as she came up the lane. Kitty was not blessed with perceptiveness, and did not see the lines on their foreheads or the despair in their eyes. She only thought that the Ingleside folk were taking all this rather lightly indeed! She had always known that caring concern Susan Baker put on was an act, and Cornelia Elliot was a snake under that matronly exterior! She would have thought Marilla Cuthbert would be a _bit_ more upset, though. But then the Cuthbert's were all gruff, and it wasn't like Anne was her _real_ child or anything like that.

"We are not accepting visitors now," said Susan feebly, when Kitty's considerable shadow crossed the threshold. But Kitty Alec waved her away.

"Susan Baker," she said nobly, for her intentions were noble—just as they would be on a certain visit to the Glen St. Mary manse some years into the future—for Kitty Alec was the sort that could never see the wrong in anything she did, "I have come here out of pure Christian spirit to make you a proposition." She addressed her remarks to Susan, much as she hated to, for she did not know the other women and did not deign to speak to Nelly Bryant. They had been at odds with one another since their schooldays.

"Perhaps—we should go into the parlour?" Miss Cuthbert stood. Susan grimly stood and went into the pantry. She would not have anyone say they had gone to pieces at Ingleside!

They all went in, and no sooner was the odious woman seated on the push little sofa than she spoke again.

"I'll take the brown-haired one," Kitty Alec said abruptly, like one giving in to a great favor. "Not the red-haired one. Red-haired girls are apt to be trouble, and I'll hold myself to that. I know that folks say you're not s'posed to separate twins but that sounds rather heathenish to me, and I don't hold to it. She can come with me now, and I know you'll be rather glad to have her off your hands."

The ladies of Ingleside stared at each other mutely. Finally, Miss Cornelia spoke,

"Kitty—Alec! You don't mean to say you expect us to give you Nan?"

"Is that her name?" wondered Kitty Alec. "I thought she was Diana and Nan was the other one. Never mind that. Yes, Nan. I'll take her."

She—was—serious. It was almost laughable. If any of them could have laughed just then, they would have. But they could _not._ Mrs. Rachel gasped—Miss Cornelia trembled all over—and Marilla Cuthbert drew herself up to her full height. And Susan—well, there is no saying what Susan would have done if the baby had not started crying and the telephone had not rung, all at once. She went to tend to both with a face flamed red from anger.

Silence reigned over all for a good long time. No one trusted herself to speak. Kitty Alec Douglas began to feel uncomfortable.

"Well, of course you need some time to think it over…" she began.

"We do not need time to think anything over," said Miss Cuthbert, standing. "It is amazing to me that you would think we would have anything to say to you. You may leave now." With her white hair and tall personage, Marilla was more queenly then that she had ever been. Her queenliness was lost on Kitty Alec, though who was sputtering at the idea of being refused.

"What! I thought you'd be only too glad!" said Kitty indignantly. "Why—why—what is the doctor going to do with a tribe of kids when his wife is dead?"

"Who says she is going to die?" ejaculated Miss Cornelia.

"She is not going to die." Susan Baker held young Shirley in her arms, and quiet triumph in her eyes. "She has made it through the operation—that was the doctor telephoning—she is out of danger now. He expects she will make a full recovery."

Each woman closed her eyes and gave thanks. When they opened them again, Kitty Alec was still sitting on the sofa, prickly with annoyance.

"Well, she'll never be strong enough to raise all them kids," she maintained. "You'd best give the one to me. There are scarce little relatives on both sides, and you'll have to split the others up, too. I can give Nan a good, Christian upbringing. You might as well give her to me."

"I'll give you nothing, except a good spanking," said Susan. "And if you aren't gone from this house in a hop and a skip, I'll shoo you out like I shoo the chickens!"

"Would you rather have _this_ raise her?" Kitty gestured to Susan. She still had not realized she was fighting a dangerous battle—and that she was likely to lose it. "Everyone says it's scandalous the way the Ingleside children run around. Mrs. Dr. barely sees to them when she's at her peak. They're downright common is the word in the Glen. The way they run about bareheaded—the way they sing all over the place and trampse around bare-foot! Why, it's scandal! But what do you expect, with a mother no one knows anything about—and the Blythes were good, high people before! Well, they've fallen—make no mistake—_oh_!" Kitty Alec's last words were cut off as she received a swift smack in the legs

For Susan had made good on her promise. She had picked up her broom and was furiously batting it around the larger woman's legs. Her hair had come undone and she looked quite wild.

"Shoo! Go on, get out!" she cried. And like Susan's chickens, Kitty Alec squawked and squeaked as she hurried out into the yard.

Susan followed her to the end of the lane, swinging and sweeping and shooing madly.

"Lord, dearies, Susan's gone crazy," Miss Cornelia said. "But I can't think of a better time for it to happen," she finished appreciatively.

Mrs. Rachel prickled with indignation. "For her to come here and say such things about _our_ children! Why, they aren't a bit wild."

"They are," Miss Cornelia admitted. "But not in a bad way, like the Drew children. They're wild—and free—and always up to something, but we all love them more because of it. Do you know what I mean?"

Marilla exchanged a glance with Mrs. Rachel. "We do," she smiled.

"Well," said Susan somewhat shamefacedly, when Kitty had finally waddled out of sight. "The Good Man above knows I was justified in doing it—but I am sorry it had to happen out in the open."

"Well done, Susan," said Marilla. "No one is blaming you. I would have done the same if my knees weren't so stiff."

"The Douglases always pick frivolous women," said Mrs. Rachel joyfully, glad at anytime to impart any gossip.

"Oh, we can't tell the doctor or Anne about this," said Miss Cornelia. "We must swear a pact. Kitty won't tell anyone—she'll be too embarrassed—but if we tell the Blythes they'll be hopping mad. Anne'll likely have to quit the Ladies' Aid, because Kitty Alec is vice-treasurer. And you know how she loves it! And half the doctor's patients are Douglases by kith or kin. No, we have to keep this to ourselves."

"Isn't it wonderful that Anne's going to be well again?" Miss Cuthbert marveled. "Now things can go back to being the way they were. Let's go in and have a piece of that pie that Susan was saving, as a celebration. Oh! Can anyone ever forget how she looked going down the road?"

"I cannot and will not," said Susan. "And neither will my fine Kitty. She'll never try such a stunt again—and that you may tie to."


	10. 10

Anne was home—home! What a wonderful word!—in time to see Spring out, and welcome Summer in. After a few weeks she felt well enough to take over some of her old household duties, to cuddle Shirley and play with the twins; to help Jem learn his letters and read poems to Walter. The day she baked her first pie was a grand day at Ingleside indeed. After a few more weeks she was laughing and going about as she always had—and a few more, and she was able to walk over to the House of Dreams, which she did one warm-golden dusk, when the clouds were purple ships carrying dreams across the sky.

She had had a letter from Leslie only several days ago—Leslie wanted the House of Dreams rented—she hated to see it empty as much as Anne, and the extra income could go to pay Persis and Owen's fees at the English school in Japan.

Anne wandered in her old, twilight-lit garden and pondered. She was lonely—oh, just a touch of loneliness—in her vigor for life and gladness at her renewed strength she wanted to share joy with everyone around her! She missed Leslie, and Miss Cornelia was gone to Halifax for the month to be with her niece. If only Leslie were back—it would be so nice to have a friend so near!

"I must make sure that the tenets of this dear place are _friends_ of mine," she said, laying her hand against the porch rail of the House of Dreams.

The June roses were out—full blown—and the scent of honeysuckle over the garden wall was sweet. The babbling of her beloved little brook was the only sound other than the buzzing of happy, fat, busy bumblebees in the wisteria.

"And they must be friends with _you_, too," Anne told her garden, and the watchful little house.

She had already made several inquiries among members of the Ladies Aid—Mrs. Alec Douglas was being surprisingly helpful in passing the news along—Anne had never known Kitty Alec to be so solicitous before! She had also posted a notice in Carter Flagg's store—but no one had 'phoned or written to say they would take it. And Four Winds was so out of the way for tourists. No one else needed a house this time of year—Anne despaired of finding anyone at all. And she had promised Leslie!

"I shall have to put a notice in one of the Charlottetown papers, I suppose," she mused, smiling. "'One house, for rent, not so very big but utterly dear and darling. A garden that is the last refuge for fairies in this day and age, and a garret full of secrets and sweet, forgotten ghosts. Only kindred spirits need apply.'"

"A letter for you, Anne," The doctor handed the envelope to his wife, "A circular for Susan—a magazine for me—and a letter for Jem! Who could have written to the boy?"

"It's from Little Fred," Anne smiled. "They are becoming pen-pals. It is so kind of Fred to take Jem under his wing the way he does—the child idolizes him so. Why, just the other day I had a letter from Diana and she said—oh, oh! Gilbert!"

That was not what Diana had said at all, but Anne's grasp on that conversation was completely gone. Instead she was focused on the letter in her hand.

"It's an inquiry—a family wants to rent the House of Dreams for the rest of the summer—just when I was giving up hope of finding anyone at all—their name is Seawynd. Isn't that a perfectly lovely name for someone living at the House of Dreams? With the sea wind ever coming up off the harbor! They have three children—I do so love to have children in that house. It delights in children—I know it does. Oh, Gilbert, I shall write to them straightaway and tell them they can take it."

"Shouldn't you interview them first?" Gilbert wondered. "What if they aren't the kindred folks you expect, Anne?"

"I am sure they will be," Anne said staunchly. "With a name like Seawynd, how could they not? Besides, Gilbert, the wife writes me that her name is 'Geraldine'—it's a sign—you remember how perfectly elegant I thought that name was so long ago! They have a baby no bigger than Shirley—and her name is Fairy! Only a true kindred spirit would honor the Queen of the Fairies that way."

"I see your mind is made up," laughed the doctor. "And no one knows that House or loves it like you, Anne. And if you feel so strongly about it—well, you'd better write to them, and tell them they may come."

Anne did just that, and the Seawynds wrote that they _would_ come right away. Anne spent the next week in preparation. She aired the house and changed the bed linens—worked in the garden, planting and pruning—until her hands were chapped and red. She polished the floors with beeswax and rubbed the old furniture with a soft cloth until it shone. She even washed the window panes, the better to let the light in. There was no cleaner, softer light than at the House of Dreams—not even at Ingleside.

She and Susan concocted a welcoming dinner to bring over the first day—the family would still be unpacking and it was the neighborly thing to do to make sure their stomachs didn't rumble while doing so. A fried chicken—no one fried chicken like Susan—a basket of fresh, flaky biscuits—and a tangy cherry pie. The doctor looked worriedly at the cherry pie until Susan assured him its sister was waiting in the pantry, for his own supper.

Even the children were excited. The Seawynds wrote that they had two other children beside the baby—one girl, Theodora, who would be a good playmate for Jem and Walter—and a boy, Reginald, who was just the twins' age. They were eager to impress their new playmates—for surely the children of Ingleside and the House of Dreams would be playmates! Walter and Jem assembled bouquets of Ingleside poppies for Theodora—who, her mother wrote, preferred to be called Theo—to keep in her room, and the twins agreed to give up some of their toys for Reggie.

While they worked, Anne conjured in her head the picture of what the Seawynds' would be like. Geraldine would be the tall, fair, elegant woman she had written about in the Story Club—surely Mark Seawynd was the dashing hero she had always expected a Geraldine to end with! Theodora would be an imp of a girl—like Anne herself had been—but with raven curls and delicate table manners—Reggie a poetic, black-browed boy like Walter. It would do Walter good to have another dreamy soul about, to share his secrets with. And the baby would be velvety and sweet, as all babies are. Anne thought about them, living in her House of Dreams—loving it as much as she did—and sang while she scrubbed.

Finally the house was spic and span and moving day arrived! Anne knew she must wait before she visited—it would be impolite to spring herself on then after such a long, hot journey! But she could not resist sitting out on the porch and waiting. Perhaps she would catch their buggy come around the bend!

Carter Flagg came by, on his old nag—then one of the Douglas girls and Elliot boys walked past arm-in-arm, sweethearting. And then—Anne's ears pricked along with her thumbs—there was a clop-clop in the distance and the sound of buggy wheels turning on the rutted road. They were coming—here they were!

They flew by in such a blur and cloud of dust that Anne only had time to raise her hand. She was not even sure they had seen her. She wasn't sure she had seen them! Perhaps—perhaps she hadn't seen correctly. For the people in that buggy did not look like her idea of the Seawynds, not at all.

Mark Seawynd had been driving—she supposed—and she hadn't been able to see much of his face beyond the white whiskers that covered most of it. She saw the rest of him, though—not much was concealed beneath his overalls. He had taken off his shirt for the hot journey, and his chest was covered with the same white whiskers that peeked up over the bib. Anne had not expected him to be so—old.

Geraldine's face she had not seen—since she was turned toward the children in the back, who were ordinary, dirty-faced children, scowling at each other. The woman—Geraldine—had not raven hair, but dishwater blonde. There was no lofty alabaster brow—in fact, it was a rather short, swarthy one. She was a corpulent person—so big that her bosoms almost smothered the baby that she clutched against her chest.

Anne was almost certain that Theodora—or perhaps it was Reginald—had made a face at her before they rounded the bed.

"Why, _they_ can't live at the House of Dreams!" she said, aghast.

Then her conscience admonished her. She had always been vain—but there was more to a person than how he looked. Why, Mr. Seawynd could still be the heroic man she thought him to be—they all could still be the people she thought them to be! Anne's dejected face betrayed her doubt, but another thought made hope spring anew in her heart.

"And maybe it wasn't even _them_!" she decided. "I will sit here until the stars come out—perhaps another buggy will come by soon, with the _real_ Seawynds in it—a lovely black buggy drawn by four white horses—each with a plume on its brow…"

In the morning, Anne set off determinedly to make the new residents of the House of Dreams'—whoever they might be—acquaintances, and carried the lunch she and Susan had made in front of her like a shield. She was gone for the best part of the morning—she set off looking grim but hopeful—and came back looking utterly defeated.

"Oh, Susan, it's worse than I thought," she sighed. "Geraldine goes by 'Gerrie.' She couldn't eat the chicken we made because they are vegetarians—and they couldn't eat the pie because they are all prone to indigestion. Mr. Seawynd threw the pie out to the pigs—yes! They are keeping pigs in the House of Dreams garden—but as _pets_. Oh, and their name isn't Seawynd at all, not really—I mean, it is, but it's pronounced 'Sowen.'"

Susan was alarmed about the pie but more upset about the state of Mrs. Dr. dear's dress. "What has happened to your voile?"

"That would be Theodora," sighed Anne. "She wanted to write my name, to show off her letters, and she upset a bottle of ink on my lap. And I only got this dress last week—the doctor hasn't even seen it yet!"

"I hope she was scolded," said Susan indignantly.

"She was—Mrs. Seawynd spanked her—right in front of me—Theodora howled—and Reginald felt bad for his sister and bit his mother on the arm. Which led to the whole thing all over again. And the children both have a croupy cough—when I mentionedI could bring them one of Gilbert's tonics, Mr. Seawynd explained to me that they are Christian Scientist—not Methodist, even!—and they don't believe in taking medicine for illnesses."

"Good heavens!" Susan was wide-eyed. She tried to compose her features into an optimistic smile. "But they like the house at least?"

"They like it—or they are pretending to," said Anne wearily. "Mrs. 'Sowen' mentioned the ceilings were low—and that the hallway was rather narrow."

"It would be, for her," Susan muttered under her breath. She too had seen the rotund persona in the buggy yesterday.

"They did not appreciate the brook—they thought it would attract mosquitos—and I swore it wouldn't—and while I was swearing it wouldn't, Susan, once came down and bit me on the arm—the first mosquito I have ever seen at the House of Dreams! Mr. Seawynd gave a great 'hah!' and I felt a fool. And Mrs. Seawynd has great plans for the garden, Susan. She wants to have a bed of—dahlias."

"No!"

"Yes," nodded Anne. "The baby is very sweet, though. It is the one nice thing that can be said of them. Only her name really isn't 'Fairy,' that's only a nickname—her real name is some uncommon name Mrs. Seawynd picked up in a romance novel: Farrah. And that is where she got Theodora and Reginald's names as well. Oh, Susan!" Anne was close to tears, "These people are to be our neighbors for the next two months!"

"I am glad Mrs. Ford is not here to see it," said Susan grimly. "But we shall tuck up and manage, Mrs. Dr. dear. And at least they are not heathens, but Christians—of a sort."


	11. 11

Anne thought she could not stand it when Mrs. Seawynd—she had asked Anne to call her 'Gerrie', but called Anne 'Annie' in return!—plowed up the bed of June lilies and planted dahlias in their stead. She tried not to mind when Mrs. Seawynd—Gerrie—hung their laundry over the porch railing—or when Mr. Seawynd—who had not asked her to call him Mark—spit his sunflower seeds on the verandah. The children fairly abused the trees on the lot by climbing them and gouging them with their boots—and whapping their branches this way and that.

But oh, for a hundred beds of dahlias compared to what else they did to the dear House of Dreams!

Miss Cornelia was the one who sighted it. Just home from Halifax, she was hurrying down the lane with a jar of jellied codfish under her arm—a present for the doctor, who loved it. She approached the bend in the road of the House of Dreams—closed her eyes, to better appreciate the heady smell of the roses, which were still intact, and then opened them and stood electrified.

"Good gracious!" she ejaculated. "If this won't kill Anne…"

"Painted the house!" Anne shrieked, when Miss Cornelia told her. They had never known Anne to shriek before. "They have painted the _House of Dreams?_"

"A bright, unearthly blue," Miss Cornelia nodded grimly.

"Like the Avonlea town hall," Anne grimaced, and held her fingers to her temples. 'It must have been in the last week—I haven't been down since Friday. I can't bear to see it—with those pigs rooting under the porch and in the shrubberies. I was not _too_ upset when Mrs. Seawynd set up her diving equipment—she is interested in the occult and deathly afraid of ghosts—and that ugly, wire contraption is supposed to find them out for her. I did not mention any of those things and was pleasant as can be—but I shall have to mention this when Mrs. Seawynd comes to take Theo home for dinner. This really oversteps the bounds of tenancy."

"How do the children get along with Theodora?"

"She is every inch the imp I expected her to be," Anne sighed. "But with very few redeeming qualities. Oh, she is smart as a whip, I'll admit. But she seems to delight in being bad. Only today she dropped the wash-basin from the boys' room down the stairs. She told me it was an accident but I heard her tell Jem she just wanted to hear the crash."

"Why ever do you allow them here?" Miss Cornelia was shocked.

Anne clasped her hands around her knees. "Walter is taken with her. He follows her around with stars in his eyes—and he is comfortable around so few people, he is so shy. Besides—the less time they spend at House of Dreams—the less time they have to—to destroy it."

"Yes, but will Ingleside survive it?" Miss Cornelia wondered to Susan.

"I am doubtful," was Susan's unsolicited answer. She went and wrapped the pieces of washbasin in paper before throwing them in the bin.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Anne did have words with Mrs. Seawynd—Gerrie—about the painting of the House of Dreams. She was very cold and did not care if Mrs. Seawynd thought her very rude. The doctor had gone by the house on his way home and said it was indeed very blue—and very reminiscent of the Avonlea town hall, in fact.

"Why, Lawd, Annie!" Mrs. Seawynd said to Anne's admonition, mistaking her coldness for something else entirely. "It was the least we could do! You've all been good to us. We jest wanted to give something back. That white brick was lookin' positively dingy."

The lovely, mellow white brick of the House of Dreams—that had been faithfully whitewashed every year since it had been built by the schoolmaster for his bride!

"In the future, I should prefer you to ask me or the doctor before making any changes," said Anne coldly.

"If you'd like," grinned the obtuse Mrs. Seawynd. "We was planning on pulling out them window seats next. It'd be so much more stylish to put bay windows in their place."

The lovely window seats where the schoolmaster had sat waiting for his bride—where Anne herself had looked out to Captain Jim's light—where she had cuddled and nursed Little Jem!

"No, thank you," she iterated firmly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Anne and Gilbert walked down to Miss Cornelia's for a supper one hot July night by the dusty main road—but decided to wend their way home by the Four Winds road, which was not as hot, and took them by the dear House of Dreams.

In the moonlight you could not see the garish color of it, and the garden looked cool in inviting. "Let's tryst a bit," was Gilbert's idea.

"But the Seawynds—"

"Hang the Seawynds," said Gilbert cheekily. "They're all asleep—the lights are off—they'll never know we were there. I could use a drink from the little spring. Come on!"

So into the quiet garden they crept. Gilbert had his drink, and Anne kissed all of her flowers good night, carefully avoiding the beds of dahlias.

"What is that contraption?" Gilbert wondered, pointing over at Mrs. Seawynd's divining equipment.

Anne giggled and explained. "She is deathly afraid of ghosts—she says she'll never live in a place where there is one. As if there could be any ghosts in the House of Dreams!"

"You look like a ghost yourself in that white gown, with that gossamer scarf over your hair," Gilbert said appreciatively. Anne, feeling impish, waved her arms in the air and murmured eerily. "Whoooooooo."

Gilbert pulled his hat low over his eyes. "Whooooooooooo!" he groaned back. It was quite an unearthly sound.

The two of them acted quite like children, then, dancing around the garden, hiding behind trees and popping out when the other drew near. Anne took off her filmy scarf and ran with it trailing out behind her like a ribbon of light. The doctor made all sorts of weird sounds.

"I've given myself gooseflesh," said Anne. "I almost believe this garden _is_ full of ghosts now—oh, Gilbert! There's a light just come on—we've been spotted. Let's run!"

They did, laughing all the way, and did not stop until they were back at Ingleside.

"Come my little ghostie," said Gilbert with a grin. "We've got to change back into the adults—do you remember our games of scaring one another in the Haunted Wood so long ago? Didn't it feel good to act _young_ again?"

Anne was giving Shirley his bath when Susan came to her the next morning.

"The Seawynds are here—on their way out," she said.

"On their way out!" Anne exclaimed. "You can't mean they are leaving? Why?"

"I think you had better come and see for yourself," Susan said mysteriously.

Mrs. Seawynd—Anne had become resigned to the fact that she could never call her 'Gerrie'—looked very rough indeed. Her hair was askew and there were purple shadows under her eyes.

"You never told us _they_ were in the house!" she nearly cried before Anne had time for a greeting.

"They were—? They?"

"Ghosts!" Mrs. Seawynd was almost hysterical with fear. "I seen 'em last night—two of 'em—a man ghost and a lady ghost, in our garden. Making all sorts of terrible groans. It was hideous."

"Ma can't eat nor sleep from fear," said Mr. Seawynd accusingly.

Anne realized immediately what had happened. She shot an imploring glance at Gilbert, who came out from behind his paper. How would they explain this one!

"I'm too old for such scrapes," Anne thought to herself. "The Seawynds will think us mad! It's not a nice feeling to know others think you mad—even when you think it of them, yourself."

But Gilbert blinked his eyes innocently.

"Dear me!" he said. "So the House of Dreams is haunted after all! I always thought I heard a few—noises in the night. Pray tell, what did the ghosts look like?"

"They was _hideous_," Mrs. Seawynd ventured ever nearer to hysterics. "The lady had a nose like a witch—"

Anne touched her own nose and bristled. Gilbert coughed to hide a laugh.

"—and the man had a face like a gargoyle!"

This time it was Anne's turn to stifle a giggle.

"There's nothing you can say to make us stay," said Mrs. Seawynd. "I can see you're about to tell us we saw no such thing, but they were there, plain as day."

Gilbert and Anne did a very naughty thing, then, but you must remember, the blue was an especially striking blue. And the dahlias were really hideous.

_And_ it wasn't exactly lying, what they did. Not _really_.

"I understand," Gilbert said seriously.

"We cannot expected you to live in a place that is _haunted_," said Anne, throwing her hands wide.

And so the Seawynds took their leave. 'We've rented an ever-so-nice house over-harbour," Theodora bragged to Walter as she passed him on the stairs. "The old Parker place. It's got a bay window in every room. And it's much more modern than your pokey House of Dreams!"

"The Parker place isn't half so pretty—and it smells like old milk!" Suddenly Walter's infatuation with Theo was gone—and gone forever. Anyone who would prefer a half-dozen bay windows to buckets of charm was no kindred to _him_.

"My soul is my own again," Anne laughed, when they talked it over later. "And my dear House of Dreams is safe."

"I'll look into finding a painter tomorrow," Gilbert promised. "Oh, Anne! I feel terribly wicked, do you? We can't tell Susan what we did—she would be aghast and think we were not 'quite right.'"

"Yes," Anne admitted. "I suppose we didn't mean to scare them—I feel as if I oughtn't to have let them believe they'd really seen ghosts—if I was _good_ I would have told the truth—but _they_ oughtn't to have been so—so un-race of Josephy."

"No, they shouldn't've," agreed the doctor.

"But Gilbert—do you know I think I really have seen a ghost at the House of Dreams? I like to—to go there in the twilight and hold my arms open—and a dear baby ghost toddles into them. She is so real sometimes I can see her—feel her—smell her. She has nut-brown hair and hazel eyes—and she is impossibly dear. She calls me 'Mo'er' as Jem used to do—and I always try to bring her back with me—to Ingleside—but she vanishes when we leave the garden, hand in hand. She never gets any older and she is waiting there for me always."

"I feel the same way when I visit the lighthouse," Gilbert smiled. "I could swear at times I see old Captain Jim's weatherbeaten face peering down at me—a hand waving me to 'come and sup.' There is a ghostly orange cat in his lap—I want to run up the stairs—but I know as soon as I do he'll be gone. Oh, Anne—what would the good Captain have said about our tenents?"

"He'd have been enraged—I'm glad he couldn't see it in person. Perhaps from heaven the blue didn't look so—blue. And I'm glad Leslie and Owen never will see it! But I shall write this whole account to Leslie now while it's fresh in my mind. How she'll laugh over it, half a world away!"

Downstairs, Susan was talking to Miss Cornelia.

"That 'Sowen' woman didn't have much sense, but I shall always keep my eyes peeled from now on, whenever I go to the House of Dreams."

"Susan Baker! You can't tell me you believe in ghosts! Why, it's positively unchristian."

"I do not believe in ghosts, Mrs. Marshall Elliot," said Susan matter-of-factly. "But I believe in mice, and that's likely what those noises were. Tomorrow I will go and give the house a good airing."


	12. 12

Jem had his fifth birthday in August. In September, he went to school.

Anne had wrestled long and hard with this decision. He was so young—still her little baby of the House of Dreams—but he was so inquisitive. Already he could read his little books and write his name—the words that were always on the tip of his tongue were "I wonder…" Marilla was shocked and appalled when she heard Anne was sending him so soon. "Children should not start school until they are seven," she reiterated to Anne for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

But they could not keep him at home much longer. He had such a bright, inquisitive mind! It was hardly fair to keep him cooped up with Walter and the twins, who he deemed 'babies.'

"I do not but think he is ready," was Susan's valued opinion. Although she might have been a _bit_ biased—she found a baby bird in the breadbox only that morning. Little Jem purported to be "studying" it.

"Why the breadbox?" Susan wanted to know.

"I wasn't sure what birds eat," said Little Jem nonchalantly. "But everyone likes your bread, Susan."

All the same, the mollified Susan thought it was getting hard to keep up with him.

Miss Cornelia took the opposite standpoint, though Anne never knew if she meant it genuinely or to annoy Susan.

"Lord, dearie! If it was up to me, I'd never send children to school at all! Rachel Elliot over-harbour is known to be a terror of a schoolmarm. When the children misbehave, she makes them copy out passages from the Bible. Imagine using the Bible as punishment!"

"Hardly Christian," Susan admitted.

"And the last of the Drew girls is teaching in Four Winds. _She_ doesn't make them copy the Bible—_she_ makes the children who are bad stand in the corner with their arms out to their sides. For hours at a time."

"But we are sending Jem to the Glen school, Miss Cornelia," Anne reminded her. "Sally Crawford has that school this year and she is much beloved by her pupils. Everyone says she is a kind and gentle teacher."

"Aha! But the Flagg boys go to the Glen school!" Miss Cornelia pointed out. "And we all know what kind of boys they are. And Carter Flagg is on the board—and he an evolutionist! I don't see," she sighed, "Why children have to go to school at all. Of course they _do_—but the things I use in my life are skills I learned at my mother's knee—they don't teach you how to make pie crust or darn a sock in school."

"Jem must go to school so that he can learn to play with other children," Anne pointed out. "I hate to say it but he bosses Walter so at times—it would do him good to be bossed a bit himself. I won't have him becoming a little tyrant like Bertie Shakespeare Drew."

"He never could, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan said indignantly.

"I know, Susan. It's just a tough decision—a real head-scratcher, as old Dr. Dave would say. I want to do whatever is _best_ for Little Jem—but also whatever makes him happiest. I suppose I _am_ getting old—old enough, at least, to realize that the two sometimes are not the same."

Gilbert solved it for them all. "Why not ask Jem what he wants to do?"

"Why,'a course I want to go. Little Fred goes to school," Jem said. "And I'm a big boy just like him, ain't I, Mother?"

"Yes, darling," said Anne. "And I hope they will finally be able to convince you, in school, that 'aren't' is ever so much nicer to say than 'ain't.'"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was an unhappy Jem that left Ingleside that first day of school, much scrubbed and brushed and nicely outfitted in a new pair of breeches. The scrubbing and brushing were only part of the cause for his black mood.

Susan had burned the batch of monkey-face cookies that were supposed to go in his lunch pail. It was a rare occurance that something got burned at Ingleside, but this had been a special case. Small Diana had swallowed a penny.

"Does she get to keep it?" Jem had asked when they were certain that the child was all right.

Father roared. "I suppose she does," he laughed.

Susan put some of her lemon cookies in Little Jem's lunch pail, but it was hardly the same thing. Jem's little mouth turned decidedly down at the corners.

That was the first bad thing.

"Oh, Susan!" Mother said. "Walter is complaining of toothache—I feel I can't leave him—will you walk Jem to school?"

The maid of Ingleside quivered with importance. It was not every maid that was asked to do such an important errand. _She_ was happy—but Jem was not. He loved Susan fiercely and would fight against those who would impugn her, but he did _not_ want Susan to walk him to school! She would wear her ugly purple housecoat that was part-bleached in the wash.

That was the second bad thing.

Susan did indeed wear the purple housecoat. She held Jem's hand proudly as they walked down the Ingleside lane and across lots. At the end of the lane Jem turned back for one last glance at Ingleside—just in time to see Walter climb into Mother's lap and smile satisfactedly.

Why, it wasn't fair! With Jem at school, Walter could sit in Mother's lap _all day if he wanted to_. Mother had said the other day that Jem was getting "so big." Walter was smaller—supposed she liked holding him in her lap better?

That was the third bad thing and Jem's little heart hardened.

Susan walked him all the way to the school door—and _kissed_ him, right in front of the teacher and all the big boys and girls. The girls giggled. "How cute!" The boys smirked. Little Jem felt his eyes well with angry tears.

Susan, thinking he was sad to be left alone all day, mistook his scowl.

"Do not you cry, Little Jem," she said. "I have the wash to do today, but I shall postpone it so that I can come and collect you when school is out."

"He's crying!" whispered one of the big boys to another.

"How _cute_!" chorused the girls.

Jem thought he could not take it anymore. All those strange faces stared down on him! He felt very red in the face, and unsteady, and just when he thought he hadn't a friend in the world—

"Come along, dear," said a voice behind him—a kind voice. Jem turned and caught his first glance of Teacher.

Why—she was a nice-looking Teacher, whatever else she might be. She had hair the color of gold—golder even than Aunt Leslie's—and her eyes were like the purple irises Mother grew in her garden. Her voice sounded like the chimes of Father's clock on the mantelpiece. Jem looked into her eyes—and offered a tentative smile.

Teacher understood him—Teacher loved him—even if no one else did!

There was a little desk for him to sit at, right by Teacher's—a little desk and chair, so small, so his feet could reach the floor. He faced away from the rest of the class, so he did not have to feel their laughing eyes on him. While the big boys were working sums on the board, Teacher sat with Jem and asked him to recite his letters and to spell 'cat.' He did—and spelled 'rat' and 'mat' and 'hat' to boot.

"What a smart boy you are!" said Teacher, and Jem shivered with delightedness. He _loved_ school.

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"How do you like school, Jem, dearie?" asked Miss Cornelia, up at Ingleside for the night. Jem had been in school for about a week.

"I like it best of everything," Jem crowed.

"Have you made any nice friends, dear?" asked Mother.

"No-o-o," Jem admitted. The big boys still teased him and the little boys were too little. "None—except Teacher. She's my _best_ friend, and I love her. I think I'll marry her one day."

Mother smiled.

"Sally Crawford's always been good with kids," Miss Cornelia affirmed. "She could have gone to school to be a nurse in Montreal—but no. 'I want to help people's minds, Pa, not their bodies,' she said to old Martin. 'I want to make them grow and learn.'"

"It is the noblest ambition," Anne agreed, eyes shining. "To look into someone's eyes and see that spark of understanding—and to know that _you_ have helped to put it there. I never felt more _wholesome_ and _good _as when I was helping a pupil work her figures—there was always a moment when one of them would breathe 'Aha!' and scribble down the answer—and I felt proud as punch."

"I always forget you were a teacher, Anne, dearie," said Miss Cornelia. "It is strange to think—You seem to have always been a mother."

"That is the greatest compliment I have ever received, Miss Cornelia," Anne laughed. "Besides the one from Mrs. Rachel—when she told me my hair was decidedly auburn. Only _yours_ is true and hers," Anne ruefully smiled, "Was decidedly _not_. My hair is redder than ever—but I think I am becoming resigned to it. Oh, _look_ at Little Jem doing his home-work over there, so studiously!"

The last part was uttered _sotto-voce_, so as to not disturb the student, but Jem heard anyway because he was not working on his numbers. He was thinking of how nice Teacher had looked that day, in her pink dress—Mother couldn't wear pink because of her hair. That was a shame—Jem thought pink was the prettiest color in the world.

And Teacher had laughed when he told her the definition of a dinosaur—"it's an animal that lived a 'way long time ago—when Moses lived, Teacher." Her eyes had sparkled like Mother's sapphire ring. And it was raining that day so they could not go out for lunch—and Teacher had eaten hers at her big desk next to Jem's little one and they had talked. Jem had even given her one of his monkey-face cookies.

"What a nice boy you are!" Teacher said, and Jem blushed.

"How _cute_!" said all the girls.

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The following Monday was a truly Monday-ish day—it was raining and Jem was sopping through and through by the time he got to the schoolhouse—in spite of his slicker. Susan had given him a hair-cut over the weekend and tufts stuck up all over Little Jem's head in a most exasperating way.

"_Cute_!" whispered the girls.

And—and—someone was sitting in his little desk. Someone _else_.

"Jem!" said Teacher kindly. "This is Larry Elliott—he is new in school. Won't you say hello to him?"

No, Jem would not. He scowled instead.

"I think you have been in school long enough," Teacher said, "That you can sit with the rest of the class! You'll share a desk with Bertie Shakespeare Drew." Sally Crawford thought that Jem would be glad to be treated like the rest of the boys. She dimpled into a smile.

Jem was not glad. Jem was upset. Jem wanted to sit in his small desk at Teacher's side always. He shot poor Larry Elliott—who had been in the Glen only two days and longed desperately for a friend—the most poisonous of all glares. Then he stamped to his seat, making as much noise as possible.

"We _mustn't_ stamp," said Teacher terribly, with a slight frown.

"My ma says your ma dyes her hair," said Bertie Shakespeare Drew by way of greeting. "But my grandma says no one would dye their hair that color."

Jem writhed in his seat and listened to Larry Elliott spell "pat."

"What a _smart_ boy!" said Teacher, and Jem felt worse than _ever_.

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He stormed up to Larry Elliott at recess. Larry Elliott saw him coming and quivered—would this be his friend? His big, liquid brown eyes shone with hope. He hadn't had many friends over-harbor—they had lived so out of the way of everything. And Jem Blythe looked like a nice boy. His house was nice, too—surely Mother would let him play there!

But the wronged Jem did not feel like making friendly overtures that day. In fact, he felt like doing just the opposite.

"So you can spell 'pat,' can you?" Jem pointed an accusatory finger.

"Y-es," said Larry uncertainly.

"And I suppose you can spell 'sat' and 'fat.' And 'that?'"

"T-h-a-t," said poor Larry, pleased to be asked. He was very proud of his spelling, and thought Jem was admiring it, too.

Jem was not. He lifted the heel of his boot and brought it down hard, mashing the toe of Larry's under it.

Larry yelped! Heads turned!

"How _mean_!" cried the girls.

And Teacher's face grew horrible as she marched over. Teacher had seen it all.

"You will stay after school today, James," she said to Jem.

No one ever called him James, not even Mother, when she was angry. Jem quaked. The 'James' gave him a shudder, but the real thing that hurt was Larry Elliot's face. Jem had to turn away from the look on Larry Elliott's face—it made him feel _that_ bad.

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Jem was kept after school for a quarter-hour. He was not tall enough to write on the board like the older boys did when they were kept after. So Teacher made him sit with his head on his desk for the whole time. She wasn't even going to sit with him. Teacher took her papers and swept out onto the porch to grade them. Jem longed to go, too. It was so dark and musty in the schoolhouse—and outside he could hear the sounds of the other kids playing!

Surely—surely he could go out? It _must_ have been a quarter-hour by now, at least! He crept down the aisle—one copper-toed boot in front of the other—and poked his head around the door, to see if Teacher was coming to get him.

Teacher—was—not! In fact, Teacher was not even looking his way! She was not grading the papers at her feet. No—she was sitting on the bench with someone—a _big_ big boy—and the _big_ big boy was—kissing—Teacher!

Jem must have made a sound because they whirled to see him.

"We've got company, sweets," said the boy to Teacher—dear Teacher. Sweets! How could he say it! And he had his arm around Teacher—but Teacher did not pull away. Teacher blushed.

"Your—your time is up, Jem," she said. "You may go home now."

Jem cried all the way to Ingleside. He knew it was not what a big boy would do—it was not what little Fred would do—but he couldn't help it. The tears just came out on their own.

"Whatever is the matter, Little Jem?" said Mother, when the small soul arrived in the Ingleside kitchen, red and dusty and tearstained. And the whole story just poured out. Even the part about mashing Larry Elliott's boot. Jem could not keep anything from Mother.

"It was an unkind thing to do to Larry Elliott," said Mother.

"I know," Little Jem sobbed.

"Why did you do it, Little Jem?"

"Because I thought Teacher liked him better'un me," choked Jem.

"Teacher must like all of her pupils equally," said Mother. "She doesn't like anyone better than you, Jem dear. Now, do you feel better?"

No, Jem did not. _Part deux_ of the story tumbled out.

"Ah," said Mother with a knowing smile. "Surely, Little Jem, you know—that big boy was Matthew Flagg. He is Sally's beau—they are going to get married next year."

Married! Teacher! Jem's world came to pieces around his boots—the boots that had gotten him in trouble in the first place.

"I was going to marry her," he managed, feeling worse than ever.

Mother opened her arms and Jem climbed in.

"I'm sorry, Little Jem," she said, her voice revealing none of the mirth she might have felt. "It is only natural you should love your teacher! But you are far too young to be thinking of marriage—and by the time you are, small son, Sally Crawford will be far too old for you—she'll be almost as old as me!"

"You're not old Mumsy dearest. And if I can't marry—Miss Crawford—I won't marry anyone!"

"Oh, you will, one day," sighed Anne, thinking of that day and not quite liking it. "And you will love your little wife very much, Little Jem, and you will have your own house together and you will have all sorts of adventures. Now, dear one, why don't we telephone up to the Glen and invite Larry Elliott over for supper? You can apologize in person, and get to know each other a little better."

"All right," agreed Jem. He hopped off Mother's lap and felt much comforted. He could smell Susan's jam cookies in the oven, and he liked those even better than the monkey-faces! And, he reflected, Sissy Flagg had worn a pink bow in her hair that day. Jem had watched it bob up and down as she bent over her slate. She was not as pretty as Teacher—but who knew? She might be—when she grew up.

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	13. 13

"Do you know, Mrs. Blythe—sometimes I feel _so_ good and generous—like my only mission in life is to _help_ and to _give—_and to believe in people, and love them?"

No, it was not an angel sitting on the sofa in the parlor at Ingleside, who said these words—but it may as well have been. Harriet Birch _looked_ enough like an angel, with hair like spun-gold—eyes of cornflower blue—and a pale, almost translucent skin—really, Anne reflected, the only thing that kept her from being hopelessly pretty were the small, wire-rimmed spectacles she had to wear. Without them, Harriet said, "I'd walk into walls, Mrs. Blythe—true's you live."

Anne smiled as Harriet rolled onto her stomach with a look of distaste. "Whatever could be wrong with those ambitions, dear?" she asked gently.

"Oh—nothing," said Harriet bitterly—she had perfected a way of speaking bitterly, after much practice in her bedroom mirror. "Only that it is _impossible_ to be a writer—a really _good_ writer—and feel that way. To write one must see the world as it really is—'a hideous cesspool of sadness and degradation,' I think, is how Shakespeare put it."

"I don't think _anyone_ has ever put it quite like that, dear," laughed Anne.

"Well, maybe it was Marlowe." Harriet waved her hand dismissively. "Anyway, Mrs. Blythe—I feel I am at an _impasse_—I simply don't know what to do. Should I have _Matilda_ tell _Bronwen _her plans of elopement with _Sir Jacques_—or should _Bronwen _find them out on her own? I think it would be _so_ dramatic for _Bronwen _to find it out—and, in a fit of depression, to take a drink of strychnine—and to die, of course."

"Of course."

"And her funeral takes place on the _very day_ that _Matilda_ was planning to elope, and so of course she can't go through with it—_Sir Jacques _never gets the message she sends to wait—and he thinks she is not coming and _throws_ himself into the river, where he drowns! Oh, Mrs. Blythe! Hand me my pen! I feel positively _inspired_!"

Anne passed the pen—with only a tiny dimple showing in her cheek. Perhaps she was remembering similarly maudlin escapades of one Cordelia Montmorency—and her bosom friend, Geraldine Seymour—but still, it was really a trial not to laugh!

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"Who exactly is Harriet Birch?" Miss Cornelia, having come up for a chat after supper, wanted to know. "I've never heard of any Birches in these parts before."

"The family isn't from the Island," Anne explained, having a rare cuddle with the sleeping Shirley. Susan so seldom let anyone else rock him to sleep. How new and sweet was his baby-smell—like all the sweet things ever before in the world rolled into one fat little baby with cherub cheeks. "Thaddeus Birch is a second cousin to Carter Flagg—the family's come up to stay for the rest of the season to help in the store, since Carter broke his leg."

"Some folks say he did it on purpose," Miss Cornelia explained. "I for one can't see a reason why he'd do such a thing, but it did happen in such a ridiculous way."

"I don't think falling off of a ladder is _too_ terribly ridiculous…"

"Not in itself, Anne, dearie. Here's how it really happened, though: his wife was away visiting her sister and left Carter the washing up to do. Why you'd leave a man the washing up to do is beyond me, but that is not the point. Anyway, they'd had the minister's wife over for tea and had a big to-do. Carter washed up like she told him—washed everything in the house but their fine wedding china. He was afraid he'd break it—he looked around for a safe place to put it, until she got back—and decided he'd put in in the top of the spare room closet. There wasn't much there that could get at it. Only he fell as he was lifting it all up and crash! Everything came down on top of him." Miss Cornelia stabbed her needlepoint emphatically.

"Oh, Miss Cornelia! Was Mrs. Flagg very angry?"

"You bet she was, dearie," said Miss Cornelia satisfactedly. "And more about that plates than the leg, I can tell you. Look what a sweet baby that is! When I look at your brood, Anne, it makes me wish I was twenty years younger so I could have one of my own."

"Shirley is sweetest when he is sleeping—and sweeter still when he is awake," Anne said, with the passion of all mothers since the beginning of time. "Harriet said, tonight, that he was 'gorgeous'—and I thanked her for it—but that is too big and complicated a word for my littlest boy. He is simply _sweet_ and _good_. But Harriet has an ever-expanding vocabulary—and likes to demonstrate it without cease."

"She certainly seems taken with you, doesn't she, Anne?"

"She does," Anne agreed. "Oh, it's because it got back to her that I used to fool around a bit with my pen—and it is Harriet's greatest ambition to be a writer. Of course I am not a very great writer, but since writers are scarce in these parts, she'll take what she can get. And so she consorts with me."

"Is her writing any good?"

"It is very tragic—and pathetic—she is very young and may improve—but in short, Miss Cornelia, speaking in the here and now—no. I read her latest installment earlier and howled with laughter in all the places I was supposed to cry."

"Oh, well," said Miss Cornelia placidly. "Put that sweet baby in his cradle, Anne, and come here and help me. I need you to wind this yarn."

Anne did as she was bade, passing the desk, where she had set Harriet's odious story as she went. She gave it a little grimace—and then laughed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was another late night for Dr. Blythe—it was nearly midnight by the time that Gilbert returned to Ingleside. He was beat—but there were two new souls in the world tonight thanks to his efforts. So all in all, you could say it'd been productive. The kitchen lamp had been left on low for him, but the upstairs hallway was dark. He could hear the sounds of the children breathing—Jem's small snores—the twins' murmuring—the baby's milky sighs. It _was_ nice to come home to such a home, wasn't it? Yes, it was!

He ate the lunch Susan left out for him at his desk, pouring over his medical journals, but he was too tired to really concentrate on the stuff. He needed something light to read—like this little story Anne had set out for him. He read the first page—and laughed—really, it was the best work of humor his wife had ever written. It reminded him of those stories she and Diana and Jane and the girls were always pouring over in school. Why, it was good, it really was! And he hadn't known that Anne'd been writing again!

Gilbert read it over again when he was through, and liked the little story more a second time. He even had to clamp his hand over his mouth to stifle some guffaws. Surely a humor magazine or newspaper would publish something like this? He'd always felt bad that Anne had given up her pen when they were married. Perhaps—perhaps it didn't have to be so?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fortuitiously—or perhaps not—perhaps _forebodingly_ is the world we are looking for—Susan was laid up with a cold later in the month, so Anne had to go to the grocery instead. It was a fine October day, so she did not mind the walk, and she had always loved going to the grocers. It was so pleasant to see all the nice, new things lined up in wait, ready to be bought or appreciated at any moment. Especially in October. There were such tangy, mysterious things in the store in October—bins of shiny apples and muted-color pears—rows of pert little pumpkins—and boxes of tangled, knobby gourds. Anne waved to the George Crawfords, who were setting on their porch, as she crossed the footbridge into town. They waved back.

"Three cheers for Mrs. Blythe!"

"Thank—you," said Anne uncertainly, and hurried on.

She got a similar greeting from the Tom Elliotts. "Good work, Anne!"

"Thank you," said Anne forcefully. To herself, "_What_ is going on?"

It was Carter Flagg himself who cleared it up. "Mind if I get your autograph?"

"On _what_?" Anne asked exasperatedly.

"Your story, 'a course," said the lame Carter. He hobbled over on his crutch and plopped the weeks issue of _Glen Notes _down in front of her.

**A TRAGIC TALE**, the headline read, and then, underneath, in smaller print: **BY ANNE SHIRLEY BLYTHE. **

"By Anne—Shirley—Blythe!" gasped poor Anne, and snatched the paper away in horror.

Oh, it wasn't—it couldn't be—but it was! Harriet's story—her pathetic, terrible little story—in the _paper_—with _Anne's_ name attached to it. Anne did not know which horrified her more—Harriet's white, accusing little face behind the counter—or the idea that everyone would think she had _written _this drivel!

"The doctor was in here at sunup, bought five copies, hot off the presses," Carter went on. "'Course I wouldn't take his money. A writer shouldn't have to pay for her own work. Come on now! Don't be in such a hurry. Why don't you sit and read it for us?"

Gilbert—bought five copies—! Anne put two and two together and came up with a very displeasing sum. She groaned inwardly.

"Thank you, Mr. Flagg but—I—must finish my shop," she said desperately. "Susan is home with the children—and—we're making pumpkin pies later on today—"

"Autograph!" Carter Flagg reminded her. Anne took his pen and blindly, scribbled her name in the margin. To be asked for her autograph for a story she hadn't written—while the true author was standing there, arms akimbo, watching—and it was _such_ a _story_!

Anne threw things into her basket at random and fled.

But she was not fast enough. Harriet was waiting for her outside the store.

"Might I have a small word with you _Mrs. Blythe_?" Her tone was acid.

"Y—es," stammered poor Anne.

"Shall we walk together?" asked Harriet formally—and coldly.

Anne drew herself up. She would not let this—_child_—condescend to her, no matter what wrongs had been committed, and how. "Of course," she said graciously.

Harriet waited until they were off the main road before turning, with her eyes blazing. "You _stole_ my story," she moaned. "Mrs. Blythe—when you _knew_ I poured my heart's blood into it—and you took it anyway—you are nothing better than a common thief—you are—a—a criminal!"

"Harriet—dear—this is all a misunderstanding." Anne told a brief sketch of what must have happened. Harriet snorted.

"Likely—likely!" she sait hotly. "You forget, Mrs. Blythe, that _I_ am a writer, too! I can recognize the ring of a fable when I hear it! Admit it! You were jealous—you stole it deliberately."

"If I had stolen it deliberately," said an exasperated Anne, "_Why _would I have submitted it to the _Glen Notes_, where you could see it?"

"Oh, it is not for me to tell _you_ why!" said Harriet, trembling from head to foot. "It is just a facet of your cruel personality, I suppose—my aunt told me, when I became friends with you, that you were like that—that you were mean and petty and jealous!"

Harriet's aunt was Mrs. George Drew. Anne stiffened.

"If you'd like, Harriet, dear, I will go to the editor of the _Notes_ right now and tell him a mistake has been made. He can publish a retraction and the credit for the story will—rightfully—go to you."

"And _now_ she tries to make amends," said Harriet sarcastically. "You forget, Mrs. Blythe, that my father would rather _die_ than let me write. My craft is done in absolute secrecy. Father would punish me _forever_ if he knew I was writing stories rather than doing school-work. You'd like that, wouldn't you!"

"Heaven grant me patience," said Anne under her breath and snapped her mouth shut. "Harriet, please believe me when I say that I don't _want_ your story. It is not at all in my style. And I never meant to hurt you, dear."

But Harriet was too far gone. "I should have known," she said, with fading self-indignation, and growning sadness, "That it would have been difficult for someone like _you_—to be friends with someone like _me. I _have my whole life ahead of me—and your time for doing anything of real importance is quite over. So I forgive you your jealousy—but Mrs. Blythe, I cannot _ever_ forgive your betrayal. All semblances of friendship between us are _gone-forever_. And that is what hurts me the most. Goodbye."

"An actress—a self-righteous, vain little windbag!" said Anne to herself as she made her way back to the safe haven of Ingleside.

Gilbert met her at the door. Anne laughed wearily.

"Gilbert, don't congratulate me—I know you meant well—"

"Meant well! I meant well and I did well, Anne-girl! I've never seen a story so well-received as yours! Even Miss Cornelia liked it—she said it was the 'least wicked' work of fiction she had ever read."

Anne blanched, and told him everything, and now it was Gilbert's turn to look rueful.

"I suppose I should have checked with your first," he said, looking down and scuffing the toe of his shoe. "But you know, Anne, there is some guilt there, for me. I remember what high hopes you had of your writing when we were young—younger. It seems—a shame—that you have to give it all up to be the wife of a country doctor."

"The wife of a _great_ doctor—and a mother to his children," Anne clarified. Her face shone with pride—and something else showed how touched she was. "Oh Gilbert, I did want that, once, but it was a quite different time then. I'm—quieter—now, inside, and it is more than enough for me to be your wife—and Jem's mother—mother to all our little babes. Most of the time words sting us because there is some semblance of truth to them—Harriet's stung me because there is _not. _ The idea—that my time for 'doing anything of importance' is over! There is no more important thing than shaping young souls—and loving them—and loving _you_."

"By Jove, Anne-girl, you _do_ have a way with words," said Gilbert, and caught his wife in his arms.

Inside Susan read her copy of the _Glen Notes_ with a critical eye.

"All in all it is not bad," she said to the purring Matey-cat, curled up on the windowseat. "I admit it was tragic—although I do not generally approve of civilized people writing stories. But I am afraid this bodes not well for Walter dear, you cat of Captain Jim. I have suspected for some time now that he might become a poet."

Matey opened one green eye, lazily, and then closed it. There were worse things in the world to be.

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A/N: Thanks for the reviews!

To everyone who reviewed my Cecilia story, thanks also. I don't know if I have a sequel in mind for that yet. What would you all like to know about what happens to Cecilia next?

I am thinking of a fic about Juliet and Allan's twin daughters, Margaret and Stella—another about Pat of Silver Bush's little girl Judith—and I am definitely planning to write another 'Anne' sequel—one that comes between Rainbow Valley and Rilla of Ingleside. I'll tackle that when I'm done this one. I've always wondered what would happen then: when Walter was writing his sonnets to Rosamond—how Faith and Jem got together—and how it was for the Merediths to have Rosemary as their step-mother.


	14. 14

"The house smells so nice, Susan," said Walter appreciatively, one cozy November afternoon. "Like lemons and lavender."

It was funny, Susan reflected, how even the words of a child could count for something. Susan's capable arms ached from the hours she had spent scrubbing the Ingleside floors and polishing the mellow old furniture with beeswax until it gleamed—but at Walter's appreciative sniff she reflected that perhaps she was not so tired after all. Susan gave him a cooky, by way of showing she was pleased.

"It'll smell even nicer once that cake goes in the oven," said Jem, eyeing the batter mixed in the old Green Gables bowl.

"Do not you go eying that cake, Little Jem," said Susan staunchly. "It is for your mother's Ladies Aid meeting. The sewing circle is meeting here today. Which is why I have been working my fingers to the bone. I don't know if Kitty Alec will attend—she comes to the parties of course but has a tendency to ignore the 'aid' part of it—but I err on the side of caution. I won't have her saying that the Ingleside pantry is not well-stocked."

"Jeepers creepers!" exclaimed Jem in alarm. "Come on Walter, we've got to scoot." And, with a reproachful glance at Susan, "I wish you would have told us earlier they'd be here."

Jem lived in mortal dread of the times that Ingleside hosted the Ladies Aid meetings. They all pinched his cheeks and called him 'James.' Myra Murray was President, and she had the tendency of sending him sideways laughing glances—as if she understood what a five year old boy could be thinking!

"The only tol'able one is Miss Cornelia," said Jem reflectively, "And she was just up here last night. Come on, Walt, let's go 'roam round until they're gone."

But Walter was comfortable by the fire and didn't want to go out into the cold. He had no fear of the Ladies—they left him quite alone. He was not a sunny child like Jem and he wasn't kissable like the twins or Shirley. If Walter had known what some of the Ladies thought of him—that he was a sly child, weird and ethereal—he might have been afraid. But he did not know so he wasn't.

"The Ladies are Christian women and your elders and not to be talked about flippantly." Susan scolded Jem while Walter deliberated. "And do not you use that 'jeepers' word, Little Jem—it sounds slangy."

Walter eyed the mix in Susan's bowl—it did smell good.

"And do not you worry, Walter Blythe," said Susan. "I have something waiting for you in the pantry for your supper, and while it may not be a lemon cake it is still a pie, and that is nothing to sneer at. Go along, now."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx "Where on earth are the boys?" asked Anne of Susan, once the Ladies—with pins and needles—had gathered. Several of the women—most of them over-harbor folk—raised their eyebrows at one another. They had heard the doctor's wife was flighty—and here was proof. She did not even know where she had put her children! Susan groaned inwardly as she set down her cake. She knew what they were thinking even if Mrs. Dr didn't.

"I saw your little story in the paper, Anne dearie," said Miss Robbins—an old maid from the Four Winds district. Miss Robbins did not mean it as a barb but was actually writhing in jealousy of it in her soul. She was not a lady of literary discernment and had thought the horrid little story quite wonderful. No one would ever know for sure whether there was a shell covered box of rather awful poems in Miss Robbins garrett—but if they had they would have understood her jealousy—and why she hadn't ever seen anything of her own in print.

So she meant well, but it was Anne's turn to groan.

"I saw it, too," said Mrs. George Drew archly—Mrs. George Drew was always attempting to be clever but it came out sounding arch. How they would have liked to exclude her from their circle! But, Anne reflected, that would hardly be Christian.

"She is good with her needle," she thought to herself, and to Mrs. George Drew said, "Oh." She offered no further explanation—a lady never explained.

"It was so—melodramatic," laughed Mrs. Rob Elliott—cruelly. She had a cruel, cutting laugh.

"I thought it the funniest thing I'd read in ages," said Mrs. Myra Murray—with a kind little smile.

"Would—anyone—like some lemon cake?" asked Anne desperately. She wanted so badly to turn the conversation—and succeeded. Susan Baker, whatever else she might be, made a cake that was a cake.

"Though I wonder if the doctor's wife cooks anything herself," whispered Mrs. Rob to Mrs. George.

"The doctor and the children would starve if it wasn't for old Susan," was Mrs. George's verdict.

The gossip turned to other topics and Anne began to breathe a sigh of relief.

"This quilt reminds me of the one that Rowena Harris sewed for her trousseau," said Myra Murray thoughtfully. "Poor Rowena. It took her ages to do it—she embroidered every inch—and then Peter Joe took a notion to run off with Rowena's sister. When Rowena heard the news she took the quilt made for her wedding bed and ripped it apart—with her teeth."

"We've all heard that story dozens of times," said Mrs. Donnell—definitely _Don_nell, and no relation to the Avonlea Don_nell_s. "It makes me anxious to hear it—poor Rowena. Let's talk of something else, please."

"Well, I've been wondering what went wrong with your Sally and Matthew Flagg, since we're on the topic," said Mrs. George Drew—archly again—to Mrs. Martin Crawford, and the breath Anne had been letting out slowly was suddenly drawn back in. Several ladies laid their needles down to hear the answer.

"You'll—have to ask Sally," said Mrs. Martin bitterly—finally. "She won't tell me a thing—I've no idea what happened. She just told me it had been called off." Mrs. Martin compressed her lips into a very thin line at the thought of all the preparations that had already taken place—for a wedding that would never happen now.

"I wish you all wouldn't talk about me as if I wasn't here," said the aforementioned Sally quietly, and the Ladies jumped. They had—sort of—forgotten she was there. The once vibrant Sally was so pale and wan now that she faded into the background. "It is between Matthew and myself—and it is no business of yours. Talk about something else."

"But Sally dear. You'll feel ever so much better if you get it off your chest." Mrs. George's eyes flashed with a curious gleam.

"I don't care. I don't want to feel better," said Sally, with tears in her voice. "I won't talk about it, and not a living soul can make me."

"So there," said the glance she threw around the room.

"She's been like this since it happened," Mrs. Martin rued. "She could at least tell her mother, I think."

"I shan't, Mamma. And the more you gripe at me about it the more closemouthed I'll become." Sally's eyes glimmered but her voice was stern. "Now please, ladies—talk about something else."

"Please—I think we should," said Anne, giving a compassionate glance to the unhappy girl. Mrs. Rob Elliott reflected with a sniff that Anne Blythe really was a bossy little thing. Likely a holdover from her schoolmarm days—Mrs. Rob reflected that at least she had never had to work for a living.

"Well, my niece Mirabelle's getting hitched next year—very early next year," said Mrs. George proudly. "Her diamond is ever so much bigger than your topaz was, Sally—I always say you can make a measure of a man by the ring he gives his girl."

"If you want to measure his wallet," was all the stone-faced Sally would say.

"Pass it around, Mirabelle," urged Mrs. Drew. The accommodating Mirabelle was only too happy to pull off her diamond and put it in the hand of the lady next to her. It was, after all, a very large ring, and it was always snagging things.

"I hear you had a letter from Leslie, Anne, dearie," said Miss Cornelia to fill the silence that ensued. "Won't you read it to us?"

"Yes, indeedy," repled Anne. "Oh, she is having the most wonderful time in Japan. I got a bundle from her just this week. I'll just go and get them—if you ladies don't mind me setting my needle idly by for a bit."

"Not at all," the ladies chorused. The Fords were favorites of them all—for their money or their kindness, depending which kind of person you were.

"It's just as well," murmured Mrs. Rob. "Anne Blythe might be the best woman in Christendom, but her stitch just zigs right across the cloth."

"At least she's good with her pen," smiled Mrs. George.

For the rest of the afternoon Anne's needle sat idle. She captivated them all with Leslie's vivid letters from another world—the sights, the sounds, the smells all seemed real to them, in a Glen St. Mary parlor half a mile away. Perhaps some of that was due to Anne's dreamy, living voice—but most of it was probably Leslie's capable prose. She could write about Persis' first tooth—and in the next sentence talk just as easily about roaming in the Temple of the Ancestors.

"Where has the time gone?" sighed Miss Cornelia when Anne put the last letter down. "Well, we've worked long and we've worked hard, and we're almost done—but I have a supper to get for a hungry man and I'm sure the rest of you do, too. We'll finish the sewing next month—the meetings at your house, isn't it, Matilda? Oh, drat—has anyone seen my thimble?"

The ladies packed up in a flurry of activity and began to trickle out, for they did have suppers to get and other sundry errands to due. Sally Crawford lagged behind. Her body seemed made of lead she moved so slowly—as if her mind and heart were a thousand miles away.

"Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Mrs. Blythe," she said, with a troubled face that showed how hard it had been for her.

"I am so glad you came, Sally," said Anne, "Dear Sally—and you know if you would ever like to come and talk to me—"

"There is no one I want to talk to," said Sally. "Except—except—" She put her hand in her pocket. "Well, it was nice anyway, to come and sit. I wonder—if you would let me come and walk in your garden for a while, Mrs Blythe? Even in the dead of winter it seems such a peaceful place. I can't bear to go home. Mamma will want to talk to me—or worse yet, she will not want to talk."

"Our Ingleside garden is always open to kindred spirits," said Anne graciously. And Sally took there like a spectre, and paced the little path between the frozen azaleas and the sleeping roses until Susan went quite mad with distraction.

"You should make her go home, Mrs. Dr., dear," was Susan's advice. "Eva Crawford will be none too pleased with her being out in this bitter cold night air. The Crawfords are all delicate—and they tend toward consumption."

"The motherly part of me knows I should," sighed Anne, peering from behind the curtain. "But the girlish part of me—yes, Susan, in my heart I am still a girl a' times—says to let her stay and pace. The poor girl—love affairs can be horrible when suddenly broken.

"I have never had any love affairs to be broken," admitted Susan, "But I cannot say it sounds very comfortable."


	15. 15

"You have missed your supper, Gilbert," laughed Anne to the doctor some nights hence when he came home quite later than usual, "And you have two hungry growing boys who wanted the last piece of pie—but I have saved it for you. Aren't I a _good_ wife, darling?"

"I've no time for pie," said Gilbert rather seriously—there was a weary little line of concern drawn in his forehead—Anne had seen it there rather often of late. She wondered what sort of lines life was leaving in her own face without her noticing.

"Do you have to go back out?" she asked ruefully. To tell the truth it had been a rather blustery little day and Anne was feeling blue—a very pale shade of blue—but blue nonetheless. For no particular reason. Sometimes one is very happy—and sometimes she is a shade of robin's egg blue.

"I suppose Mrs. Douglas over-harbour is having her baby," she said crossly.

"Not that—I've got to get back to the Crawfords. Their girl Sally is bad off—been feverish for days. I think it's pneumonia—but I won't know for sure until I observe her for a little bit longer. I just came home to get some things—and my boots—save my pie for me, won't you, Anne?"

But now it was Anne who was not thinking of pie. She had jumped to her feet and was holding her hands to her mouth.

"Oh, Gilbert," she said tremulously. "Sally was _fine_ at sewing circle last week—but I let her walk in the garden—for hours. Oh, it was cold on Thursday night—and she was out there in her little thin coat—you don't suppose that it was—what made her sick?"

"I think it was a darned silly thing to let her do," said Gilbert peevishly—hours on end in a sickroom could make anyone peevish, even a Blythe of Ingleside. "It could have exacerbated the situation."

"Is she—very—ill Gilbert?"

"Yes—she's been running a fever for four days, and has had a cough for three," said the doctor.

"But she will get better—"

"She says she doesn't _want_ to get better," said Gilbert, running his hand through his thick curls. "The only thing I've heard her say all day is 'Let me alone—I don't want anything. Let me alone.' Well—I've got to get back."

"You can say I told you so if you like, Susan," said Anne, when Gilbert had gone. She laid her burnished head on her arms. "I'm just as flighty and irresponsible as Mrs. George Drew thinks. Oh—if anything happens to Sally Crawford I shall hate myself forever."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was indeed pneumonia—and Sally Crawford was indeed a sick girl. That was what the doctor reported when he came home very late that night—or early that morning, depending on how you looked at it.

"But she won't _die_?" cried Anne.

"No-o-o. Not if she picks herself up—she'll has to struggle for it a bit. Only she's decided not to fight it at all—'Let me alone, let me alone,' was all she said. I was—rather—harsh to you earlier, Anne. It wasn't your fault. Likely Sally Crawford's been sick for some time—your allowed walk in the garden just brought the symptoms out and better sooner than later."

"Oh Gilbert," Anne implored with her eyes. "Has—anyone—told Matthew Flagg?"

"Don't know—don't see as they would have had any time. Matt's working all the way over in the boat-yard—and neither of her parents has left the house since Sally took sick. They're both—sick—themselves—with worry—by Jove I'm sleepy—Anne—"

The doctor had fallen asleep with his boots on.

"Likely Gilbert is just trying to make me feel better," she said, her lip trembling. "It _is _my fault! Oh, if Sally dies—I shall have _her blood_ on my hands. If only," Anne fitted her finger into the dimple on her chin, "There was _something_ I could do to make her well!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Worse today," said Gilbert. He shook his head. Anne blanched. "She won't eat a thing—and without her strength she's got not gumption to fight it off. I've got to get back—don't wait up for me tonight, Anne."

Anne paced for a long while. But not in the garden—she couldn't bear to look at the garden. Sally Crawford had been strong and well, if a bit pale, when she, Anne, had allowed her to walk in that garden half the night. On a bitterly cold night!

"I know what I must do," she said resolutely, after a moment's inspiration. And then she flew upstairs to get dressed.

For Anne had read the book of Esther and knew that if you were going to try to influence anyone to do anything you must look your best. On went her new ivory toile—up went her brushed and dressed hair—and on top of all that went the new gray green hat that did things to her eyes.

"It is a shame I have to cover it all up with my coat." Even in turmoil Anne loved her clothes. "But at least it is a nice coat. And all the Flagg boys like a well-dressed woman."

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"What is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Martin Crawford looked awfully rosy cheeked for someone whose daughter might at this moment—be growing weaker—and wearier. "Anne Blythe—and Matthew Flagg—?"

"We're terribly sorry to intrude," gasped Anne. "But oh, Mrs. Crawford—we must see Sally right away—before it's too late."

"Too late for what?" asked Mrs. Crawford exasperatedly. Anne glanced at her dress. Surely—she couldn't be cleaning house while her daughter was so ill? But Mrs. Crawford was most assuredly wearing an apron—and she was holding a mop—

"Please can't we see Sally?" asked Anne confusedly.

"Come in, if it's so important," said Eva Crawford peevishly. It was just like the doctor's wife to come along on the day when she decided to do chores. And she herself looked so stylish in her green hat!

"Sally's in the parlor," she said lamely.

"Then she must be better!" Anne felt like her legs would give way she was so relieved! "Then she isn't going—to die?"

"Die? Sally?" Now a furrow appeared in Mrs. Crawford's brow. "Whatever could give you that idea?"

"Gilbert said—that Sally had pneumonia—and was _awfully _sick—Mrs. Crawford, I mean no disrespect—but am I crazy or are you? I was ever so—worried—and I went and got Matthew from the pier and we came here straightaway—and I asked him to make it up with Sally—to restore their engagement, you see—because I thought it would make her better."

"Oh, Mrs. _Blythe_!" cried a peaked but otherwise well-looking Sally from her place behind her mother. "You've got it _all _wrong—it's my cousin Sally Crawford over-harbor that's sick—and I_ don't_ want to marry Matthew at all! _I_ called off our engagement, not him!"

"W-hat?" asked Anne.

"You did?" squawked Mrs. Crawford.

"Yes Mamma—I knew I couldn't marry him the minute I saw Conrad Flagg when he came to town last month. I love him—he loves me, too."

"Sally—child—you might have told your poor mother that!" Eva Crawford threw her hands up in exasperation.

"But—you seemed—so distraught over your broken engagement," gasped poor Anne.

"Matthew and I are friends—good friends—and it is never easy to hurt a friend," Sally said with a sad and wise little smile. "Matt and I will be friends always—won't we, Matt?"

"Yes—but Mrs. Blythe here did get my hopes up," Matthew grinned.

"Oh I meant well—I meant so well," said Anne in horror.

"I know you did, Miz Blythe," said Matt cheerily. "Well, I've got to get back to work—glad you're not sick, Sal. See you at the dance at the light Friday—Con can't make it—and you'll save a dance for me, won't you?"

"Come inside, Mrs. Blythe," said Sally kindly. "Mamma and I were just about to have tea—you look as if you could use some."

"Thank you," murmured the mortified Anne. "But I really must—be getting home."

Her cheeks felt red with embarrassment.

When she was halfway to Ingleside, Anne began to smile over the whole thing.

"First I was wrong—dead wrong—about Katherine Brooke and Pierce Grayson—and now this." She threw back her head and whooped—there was no one around to see. "Poor Matthew—he must have felt like he'd been granted a reprieve—but more importantly, poor _me_. There should be a law passed against me meddling in love affairs but since I cannot not propose one, I shall just have to swear by the moon that I—Anne Shirley Blythe—will _not_ try my hand at matchmaking ever _again. _Good grief!"


	16. 16

There was a storm of rain and sleet in the next month—a nor'easter that swept up so suddenly from the coast of Maine—and the Glen was paralysed by it for three days. The wind shrieked like an angry woman and battered back anyone who dared defy it by going out. Shutters were torn from houses—boats swung back and forth and capsized in the marina—and dozens of the little pine saplings that had been planted around the Glen were torn up by their roots and tossed about like trash.

On the fourth day the wind stopped as abruptly as it had come, but the sea still churned dangerously—they could hear it all the way from the Ingleside garden where Anne surveyed her ruined flora.

"Perhaps it is easier that it happened in winter and not spring," she sighed, sweeping up the remnants of her aster bed and caressing the one lone azalea that had survived. "I can always plant new flowers and have them ready by the time spring comes—but each flower in this garden was already my friend. I hate to see them go away so—_ignomiously_."

"Doesn't the sea sound terrible, Mummy?" Walter wanted to put his hands over his ears—but was strangely fascinated by the sound. "Like an old man—roaring—like _God_."

"God _never_ roars, because he is good and kind," explaned Anne with another sigh. "He is the beautiful master of Creation—but oh, I wish his storm hadn't traumatized my poor garden! Let's go inside, small son. Things will soon be cleaned up and returned to normal."

At sunset a flare went up from the lighthouse over-harbor.

"I'd better go and see what it is," Gilbert said, standing up from the supper table and wiping his hands on his napkin. "Someone might have been lost at sea—or drowned—some poor fisherman or a soul who didn't know how to handle his boat. I'll be back, Anne-girl."

And indeed, Gilbert did come back, hours later, rather slowly, looking tired and defeated. But there was something strangely electric in his eyes.

"Is anyone hurt?" Anne cried, seeing him come up the lane. She was sitting out on the porch in her winter coat, waiting for him. The children were already abed, and Susan reading her nightly dose of Scripture, and Anne—felt strangely unsettled somehow. She wanted to come and watch over her garden—which did not look so wasted by moonlight.

"Yes—someone is hurt—dead—but not anyone we know."

"Gilbert?"

"The sea's brought up a lot of—stuff—since the storm—the way it's been churning—and a body washed up on the beach today, over harbor. It's been—down—a long time, Anne. Nothing left but bones. But there's some cloth still—it looks like a dress so it must have been a girl—a young girl, judging by size. And pieces of a dory—still painted—washed up, too. Anne, I think it's—I think it could be—"

"Lost Margaret," said Anne, with tears in her eyes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Lost Margaret!" Miss Cornelia breathed. "I haven't heard that name for years, Anne, dearie. Not since the time, so long ago now, that Captain Jim told me about her. I hadn't supposed he'd have told you about it, but then you two did get on so well. Well, he never forgot about her, did he, the poor devil."

"No—he never did." Anne's eyes shone with tears, the way they had since Gilbert had told her of the discovery. "Oh, Miss Cornelia, dear Captain Jim wanted so badly to find her—but I'm glad he didn't. As long as no body was found, he could believe lost Margaret had drifted away into the sunset or a moonscape and was still alive—this is so dreadfully final and terrible."

"There is nothing final or terrible about death," said Susan staunchly. "Scripture says so, and that you may tie, to, Mrs. Dr. dear."

"I know you're right, Susan—but there is something final and terrible about the loss of a dream. Lost Margaret existed for me in a dream-world of the past—and it isn't quite—comfortable—when two worlds collide."

"Well, what is to be done with her?" asked Miss Cornelia. "If it _is_ Lost Margaret in the first place. How _can_ they be sure?"

"They aren't," sighed Anne. "Margaret was lost over fifty years ago now—there isn't a soul alive that remembers knowing her. Old Gordon MacAllister, who is ninety-six, remembers hearing the story when the girl went missing, but he has forgotten her name, and besides, he lived in Dovedale and only came to Four Winds occasionally. He does say that the paint on the dory looks familiar—it is a very striking job and it still shows, all blue and yellow and red. But again, he can't place it."

"Gordon MacAllistar never had a lick of sense, even before he went completely senile," Miss Cornelia tsked. "What are they going to do with the girl?"

"She'll have to be claimed—by someone," mused Anne, clasping her white arms around her knees. "We are trying to find someone who knew her—or a family member—but if it is lost Margaret we mustn't expect miracles. Captain Jim told me once that she was an only child—and hadn't much family to begin with—and we aren't sure we ever heard of her last name. Gilbert is upstairs now leafing through the old life-book, and I have written a long letter to Owen requesting information. You know how Captain Jim told him everything when they were writing the book together."

"Well, it's a mystery," said Miss Cornelia, putting on her muffler. "What's also a mystery to me is a man's stomach—and how, despite his lunch at noon, Marshall can be so hungry again by tea. I must get home—you'll let me know if you hear anything from Owen, won't you, Anne?"

"Indeed I will, Miss Cornelia—indeed I will."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Owen Ford wrote back hurriedly—no, he did not remember, in all the time they spent together, Captain Jim mentioning Lost Margaret's family name. Likewise, none of the living members of the Boyd clan knew anything about Captain Jim's true love.

"Jim had a belle, eh?" asked Captain Jim's son-in-law. "That old bachelor? I don't believe it."

"So it is destined to remain a mystery forever," Anne said, somewhat dissatisfactedly. She was a chaser of dreams—she knew that some things defied understanding and so she didn't press to understand them—but oh, she _would_ dearly love to get to the bottom of this. "I feel like there is something _driving_ me to know. Gilbert—what will be done with—with the body?"

"Burial in an unmarked grave, probably," said Gilbert, rubbing his chin.

"Oh Gilbert—no—we can't let _that_ happen. We must have a church service—and a proper burial—in the churchyard."

"I don't know if that's possible, Anne. We've no idea, really, who this girl is—_was_—and we can't go putting up a stone that says 'Lost Margaret' on it when we really haven't a clue."

"Stop being so sensible—or I'll stamp my foot and pull your hair like one of the twins!" Anne howled. "Even if it isn't lost Margaret it's _someone_—and a sad little burial in an unmarked grave isn't the right end for _anybody_. Please mayn't we help her—whoever she is? _Please_, Gilbert."

"You know I can't deny you anything when you look at me with those big gray eyes, Anne," the doctor admitted. "All right—I'll go down tomorrow and sign the papers—and we'll give the poor thing a proper burial. Though people—will—think it's strange."

"I don't care," said Anne, eyes aglow. "In my heart I will know it's _right_ and I won't care if people think it strange a bit."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Almost half the town turned out for the little funeral on a cold gray Saturday near to Christmas. Possibly most of them were there out of curiosity—it was strange that the doctor's wife should care so much to undertake the expense. But others among them might have been thinking of other things. They were a sea-faring people and hardly one among them had not lost a loved one to a watery grave.

Anne knew just the spot for the little grave—under one of the birch saplings that ringed the old graveyard. Captain Jim had said, once, that Lost Margaret reminded him of a smooth white birch. They recited that poem,

"Sunset and evening star

And one clear call for me!"

The minister gave a lovely sermon, and just when he got to the "ashes to ashes" a shaft of light broke through the clouds. Anne looked up—the rest of them followed suit—and a muted gray morning dove circled overhead. As they watched, it swooped over the little crowd—and landed on the monument erected in the memory of Captain Jim—before uttering a sweet trill of a song and flying away.

Anne thrilled to herself on the way home. "It was enough of a sign for me. Oh, I am glad that Captain Jim and his lost Margaret are together at last."

"Surely they were both in heaven together long before this?" asked the doctor, mostly to bait Susan.

"Yes, of course," Anne clarified. "But lost Margaret's slumber must have been always broken by the sound of waves—she is at peace, now, and can get on with the business of eternity. Though she is not _lost_ Margaret any longer and oh, Gilbert—I'm glad."

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A/N: The story of Lost Margaret was always one of my favorite "Anne" stories! I hope you all like this end for her. I couldn't bear thinking she would never be found.

r6144: Of course we know that Anne reevaluates her position on matchmaking…

I know this fic is rather like AoI but its hard to think of one over-arching plot. It's easier to include everything in little vignettes.

adriennelane: thank you! I always hated how Anne stopped getting into scrapes when she was a parent. It was so unAnneish.

Miri: what a beautiful complement. Thank you.

Joogie: I'm actually thinking of rewriting my _As Dreams Go By_ fic—not changing the plot but making it longer and adding some things. I include a lot about Sara and Bev and their children, Charlotte, Rachel, and Blair in the Juliet books—but I suppose they deserve a fic all their own, too! I'll think on it.

blows a kiss back


	17. 17

January so often brings the winter blues but this year the Glen – indeed, the whole country – was caught up in the throes of excitement that proceed a general election. There was no time for doldrums with so much going on! Every family talked politics, from sun-up to sun-down in a manner which Susan said was "something scandalous."

"It does not seem right to talk of something so flippant as elections on Sunday," she said rebukingly to the doctor and Miss Cornelia, who were in the middle of an argument as to the benefits and burdens of voting Liberal or Conservative. Miss Cornelia was as staunchly Conservative as she had ever been – her years of being married to an equally staunch Grit had not mellowed her convictions. Gilbert, also a Conservative, was taking up the Grit side just to tease her.

"Just a moment ago you told us of your new hat, Susan," said Anne with a dimple. "Don't you think that it's more appropriate to talk of politics than fashion on 'God's day?'"

"Indeed I do not," said Susan hotly. "There are a great many wicked men in politics."

"Perhaps," laughed Gilbert, "There are a great many wicked milliners and we just don't know about them. They aren't exactly in the public eye, Susan."

Susan sniffed.

"You will never see me in a fury about politics, and that you may tie to," was her response. It was meant to get under Miss Cornelia's skin, for Miss Cornelia had been arguing vehemently and her cheeks were flushed under eyes sparkling with energy.

Miss Cornelia discerned that she was Susan's target and laughed.

"Bless me, Anne dearie," she chuckled. "I suppose I am getting too worked up over these elections but so is Marshall, and we argue about it all the livelong day. I thought I could escape it by coming to a place where there are good Conservatives to agree with me." This said with a dark look at the doctor for taking up the Grit side.

"I'm going to vote Grit," said Little Jem, from his place on his mother's lap.

"And you'll get a sound spanking from me if you do," Miss Cornelia told him.

"It is such a shame that women do not have the vote," said Anne, pink-cheeked herself with excitement and mirth. "I, at least, can be satisfied with the fact that my husband votes the way I want him to – but oh, do you remember, Gilbert, when you were just a school-boy, and said you would vote Grit? _I _never forgot it – I thought for sure that I could never fall completely in love with a Grit. It's only after you went Conservative that I ever considered marrying you."

"Oh, is that what it was?" asked the doctor archly.

"Melissa Flagg locked her husband in the cow-shed until he promised to vote Conservative," said Miss Cornelia. "I remember thinking it was no way for a Christian woman to act – but as a Tory woman, I think she did her duty just fine."

"It is too bad you can't try that trick with Marshall," laughed Anne.

"I've considered it," said Miss Cornelia seriously. "Only we haven't a cow-shed. Oh, I'm through trying to make any sense of Marshall, Anne. The man is crazy in a thousand ways and this is only one of them. He takes politics awful seriously – says if the Glen goes Tory he won't live here any more."

"Well there is no chance of it going any other way," said Anne with dissatisfaction, a staunch Conservative out of respect for Matthew Cuthbert's memory. "Everyone says that Mack Douglas is sure to be elected to the assembly and he's the very grittiest Grit that ever gritted. So fear not, Miss Cornelia. I have complete faith that you will go on being our neighbor evermore and that suits me just fine."

Susan Baker's eyes gleamed and she thought that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if the Grits did get it.

"Well, I'm off," said Miss Cornelia, stabbing a hairpin through her hat as she put it on, and enfolded herself in one of her calico wrappers. "Marshall is going to be home every minute and I've got to get his supper – even a Grit has to eat."

"I think it was terrible of you to tease her so," said Anne, when Miss Cornelia has gone. "Oh, Gilbert, it worries her when you tell her you're going to vote Liberal!"

"Who said I was teasing?" asked the doctor with a roguish smile, as he took the sleeping Little Jem and went to lay him in his bed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Everything came to a head on Election Day. Anne was even allowed by Susan to display a Tory placard from the kitchen window so that people would see it from the road as they went to cast their ballots. This was a magnanimous step for Susan, who did not "tie to" elections _or_ placards.

Anne was in such a fervor of excitement that she could hardly sit still. Carter Flagg called up every few hours as he got the results from town and Anne flew to the 'phone each time. The doctor watched her dancing eyes with a gleam of mirth in his own.

"The next thing I know you'll be a suffragette, parading around the Glen with a sign and wearing bloomers," he said in mock consternation. "And oh, what will Susan think of you then?"

Susan did not say what she would think, but _looked_ it with considerable vengeance.

"And why should I not?" asked Anne saucily. "It is really rather ridiculous that women _haven't_ got the vote, Gilbert, and I know you think that, too."

Susan looked as if she might faint.

"I don't think the bloomers are a half-bad idea, at least," said the doctor, to rile her even more.

At sundown Carter Flagg called again, with surprising news – the Conservatives had surged ahead. To Anne and Gilbert this was gladdening news. Who knows how a certain man in a little green house near Four Winds took it? At dinner time, the news was better – the Tories had a clear majority – and just before bed, another call came: the Tories had won the Glen! Anne clapped in celebration and even Susan allowed a smile. She did not know much about Tories or Grits one way or another, but Malcolm Douglas had always been a queer sort of person. It was rumored that he was a vegetarian, whatever that might be. Susan knew it did not sound right. So all in all, everyone at Ingleside was very happy.

"I don't think I'll vote Grit ever, after all," said Little Jem.

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Anne was still glowing with pride in the unexpected win the next day, when she sent Little Jem and Walter off to school. Walter had started going in the fall, and Anne was delighted to see the two of them walking side by side down the lane. But as they were going, another figure was coming up that same lane, and the look of bleak despair about her made Anne's own face fall.

"Miss Cornelia!" she exclaimed. "Whatever is the matter? Has – someone – died?"

"It's worse than that, Anne, dearie," gasped Miss Cornelia, grim eyes set in a face that was ghastly pale and streaked from crying. "I pretty much figure I might as well be dead – today."

"I thought you would be so glad that the Tories are in," said poor Anne, who was thusly confronted with the disconsolate sight of Miss Cornelia crying! _Miss Cornelia_!

"I wish they never had!" Miss Cornelia cried, wiping her face with the edge of her wrapper. "Marshall has stuck to his word, Anne, and he says he won't live in a district that isn't Grit. He's talked to Captain Josiah today about finding a tenant for our house and he says he wants to move to a place where 'good Liberals' live."

"But the nearest Liberal district is – is – "

"North Carmody." Miss Cornelia blew her nose.

"North Carmody!" intoned Anne, in a voice that suggested it might be Timbuktu. And it might as well be! North Carmody was fifty miles away from Glen St. Mary – almost as far away as Avonlea!

"He – won't – stick to it," Anne said uncertainly, throwing her arms with much more decisiveness around the near-sobbing Cornelia. But Miss Cornelia shook her head and gave voice to the nagging little imp that had started chattering in Anne's mind.

"He will, though – you remember how stubborn he was about cutting his hair before the last elections, Anne. The man looked like a hay-stack and _would_ not cut it until the Grits were in – not even when his mother asked him to – and she on her death-bed! He is stubborn and 'whither he goest' I shall have to go. But oh, Anne – I've lived my whole life in the Glen and Four Winds District and I feel I'm too old to settle somewhere else!"

"Everything will work out for the best," said Anne, not quite believing herself. Miss Cornelia did not believe her and went away back down the lane much the way she had come up it – close to tears.


	18. 18

"Marshall Elliott is holding true to his word," said Anne to Gilbert dismally, entering the kitchen and taking off her hat. She had been with a water-logged, sniffling Miss Cornelia all day, helping her wrap china and place it in boxes to prepare for the move, which _was_ happening. Anne was, all her life, the kind of person who laughed with her friends in triumph and gave them a shoulder in times of woe. And Miss Cornelia had needed her shoulder today – though all through it, Anne had felt perilously close to tears herself.

"I never thought Marshall was the kind of man to act in such a way," she sighed now, "But he has already found a tenant for their house and is determined he shall have his way. I like Marshall tremendously all other times but today he is acting decidedly like a man, and I find I don't like him at all."

"You sound like Miss Cornelia," said Gilbert. "You must remember, Anne, that she took her wedding vows and promised to go wherever her husband wanted her to go."

"I suppose _you_ would think nothing of picking us all up and moving any where you wanted," said Anne, a trifle peevishly. It really had been the kind of day that tested one's spirits. "Susan! Whatever is the matter?"

For Susan had banged a pot, something that never happened at Ingleside. For her part, Susan refused to speak, but she _looked_ things not lawful to be uttered and her eyes were suddenly red and face grim. Later that day when Nan bit Small Diana on the arm, Susan would spank her, with gusto. Administering spankings to the Ingleside children was something Susan did not usually relish, but that day she needed a way to relieve her feelings and took it out on poor Nan's bad behavior.

"I am going to go for a walk," said Anne, and rose to go back out into the night, needing to get her soul back on an even keel.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Anne felt an urge to walk down to the Four Winds light. That dear place reminded her of so many dear memories – Captain Jim and his be-whiskered cat still seemed to hang around the place – there was Leslie on the shore – and dear Miss Cornelia of old come to knit on the porch of the Little House of Dreams. How dear the House of Dreams looked by moonlight! It's new tenants were a prosaic sort – Anne had given up trying to find a kindred spirit to reside within its walls and had let it to a young family from over-harbour. There was no poetry shining from its neat, gleaming windows, but the young mistress of the house took good care of it, at least. The bricks had been neatly whitewashed instead of painted, and the ivy on the garden wall was neatly trimmed.

Anne dallied with the old ghosts for a while and then started back. It was disheartening to be around the place knowing that Miss Cornelia would so soon be gone from it. At that moment Anne hated Marshall Elliott with a fiery white flame of anger – hated all Grits – hated all _men_! How unfair that they had the power to decide where to go and when!

She took the shore road back to the Glen, pulling her cloak tighter around her to block out a little chilly sea-breeze that had come up off the harbour. She was lost to a reverie until she turned a bend in the road and saw before her a sight that made her stop cold in her tracks.

It was Marshall Elliott – freshly shaven and respectable in all respects – except that he was teetering to and fro as he walked and seemed to be singing a rowdy song that Anne did not recognize. She was frozen to her place, and the unlucky Marshall did not see her until he had almost passed her, and then his song died off. He came to Anne and made a move to grasp her hands, but Anne, being faster and fueled by a new sort of anger side-stepped him. Why – why – !

Why, Marshall Elliot was _drunk_!

Anne said nothing but her eyes flashed dangerously, and Marshall, smart enough to recognize the deadly gleam, began to implore her.

"I ain' so very drunk, Anne," he began in a most slurring, beseeching fashion. "I had a drink with the fellows down at the Harbour Head – just one – on account of my party losing it, you know. But I ain' used to it and I s'pose that's why it's 'ffecting me so. I'll go into the barn and sleep it off. Cornelia and I had a row and she won't 'spect me back till morning. You – ain' – going to tell her, Anne? Are you?"

Anne did not say one way or another but simply raised an eyebrow.

Here is when Marshall Elliott paled with fear. He knew Anne was quite capable of telling Cornelia and believed from the cold, stern look on her face that she _would. _So Marshall began to wheedle.

"I s'pose I've been rath'r mean about the whole thing," he said cajolingly – or as cajolingly as he could. "If Cornelia doesn't want to move to Carm'dy, Anne, I won't make her. I'll tell her I had a change of heart. That is, if you don't tell her about – "

"Good-night, Marshall Elliott," said Anne in the same lethal voice, and walked away from him, her head high.

She jerked her skirts angrily and almost slammed the front door to relieve her feelings, but when she remembered how hard it had been to get little Shirley to sleep that evening she settled for closing it gently and then jerking the covers away from sleeping Gilbert as she got into bed. Which was really rather unfair of her, as Gilbert had done nothing wrong that she knew of.

"But I feel as though I ought to be mad at him just the same," thought Anne petulantly, as she drifted off into uneasy slumber.

In the morning, a grateful, beaming Miss Cornelia made her way to Ingleside.

"I don't know what you did, Anne," she said laughingly, "But Marshall swears I have you to thank. He's decided to stay in the Glen after all – says I am a good wife to him and it was his temper that made him act so. He's real sorry now – he looked right uneasy this morning, all pale and wavery. I don't know what you said to him, Anne, dearie, but bless you – Marshall has had a change of heart and in all the years I've known him I've never known him to have one of _those_."

"I did nothing," said Anne, restored to her good spirits at this news and giving her friend a kiss. And that much was the truth. Anne had done nothing, but for the rest of their lives, Marshall Elliott would be extremely cordial to her, and tip his hat out of part-gratefulness, part-fear. Anne supposed she could be spared punishment for her lie of omission whenever she thought of the almighty row it would cause if Cornelia ever found out about – about _it_. And to her knowledge, Marshall Elliott never got drunk again.

As for Gilbert, Anne went to him in the twilight as he came home from a call over-harbour and greeted him with shameless moonlit kisses and words that made him forget her poor behavior to him of the last few days. They lingered in the garden for a while, and Anne said, saucily,

"If you had known the way it would turn out, Gilbert, maybe you had better have refrained from teasing poor Cornelia that you were going to vote Grit."

"Who says I was teasing?" asked Gilbert again.

"Oh – oh, _Gilbert_! You didn't _really _vote Liberal?"

"Well, Mac Douglas is a good sort of chap," said Gilbert, somewhat shamefacedly. "I think he'd do good things for the Glen, Anne, if he'd gotten in – "

"Gil_bert_!"

"Do you think you could still try to love me?"

"I think I could _try_," said Anne, gloweringly. "But you must promise to never do _that_ again."

Gilbert duly promised and went in, taking the stairs two at a time. Anne stayed in her garden, trying to digest this turncoat behavior.

"At least the Tories are in," she said finally to her sleeping begonia. "And so – all's well with the world."


	19. 19

"Let's go out and have a happy day," said Mother, one splendid, bejeweled spring morning when the world had had its face washed clean with dew.

"Why?" asked Little Jem. Even at a young age, Little Jem was practical. And he wanted to know things. There always had to be a _reason_ for doing something, after all. Why shouldn't he know what it _was_?

Anne knew with the wisdom of years passing that there did not have to be a reason to have a simple, happy day. "Since when," she dimpled, "Has any one needed a reason to be glad?"

Jem was not impressed with this logic. He looked skeptical.

Mother tried again. "There is a whole wide world out there and it is waiting for us – it is very beautiful – and it is ours, Little Jem! Let us go and claim it!"

That was as good a reason as any, and so Mother and Jem happily set off. The twins were taking their nap and Susan was concocting a jelly roll for after supper. Walter was down to visit for the day with Kenneth Ford – the Fords had come back finally – and what a jolly clam-bake they had all had on the beach the night before! Even Father had been there – it had been the rare night in a dozen where nobody was sick or dying or being born. But today, there would be no visiting. Jem knew that. He and Mother were simply ramblers – they were striking out with no distinct purpose. They would not even stop in to call on Miss Cornelia if they happened by the Four Winds light. They dearly loved Miss Cornelia but that could wait until tomorrow. Today –

"Today is a day to spend," said Mother.

Little Jem liked the sound of that. 'A day to spend' – it made it sound as if there were a whole heap of endless, violet-tinged, beautiful dreams of days before you. Little Jem had realized when Mother said it that there was a limit on days for every man. He had never thought of it that way before but he thought of it now. Not in a sad or sorrowful way but in a matter-of-fact way. Other days of his life would be devoted to certain tasks – tedious tasks – to going-away, or homecoming – or the million little festivals that make up life.

"But today is ours," said Little Jem happily, getting into the spirit of things.

They decided not to take a lunch or even their rubbers, though who knew what could happen on a spring day like this? A sudden rainstorm could come up – "Nevermind if it does," said Mother. "We'll chance it!"

Jem had a thrill of adventure.

They spent an hour or so going through the little green valley behind the maple grove. Jem had 'discovered' it one day last winter when he had been coming back from Bertie Shakespeare's. After the poky, stuffy Drew house the little valley had seemed quite wide open and alluring, covered clean white snow, with a bright moon shining above. It was lovelier by spring. Jem loved to come to it any time but he had a secret reason for wanting to show it to Mother today. Just that day beautiful, delicate pink stalks of May-flowers had come up from the ground. Jem solemnly picked a cluster and presented them to her. Mother smiled and exclaimed over them – and Jem at that moment made a little vow that no matter where he was or what happened to him in his life, he would always, _always_ bring Mother the first mayflowers, every spring.

When they had examined every blade of grass in that dear little dell, they went down to the shore and watched clouds. It was so fun to watch the clouds with Mother. She always saw such fantastic things in them …

"That one is a camel – loaded down with exotic spices and packages – going to an Arabian land." And little Jem could see it and feel the hot desert air, and hear the tinkling of bells on the camel's harness.

"Now, tell me what you see," said Mother. Jem thought he saw a tall ship gliding over the horizon of blue. Prosaic, but then he and mother wove little stories about that ship so that it became a mysterious privateer's frigate with sails and flags unfurled.

"My, all this imagining works up an appetite!" said Mother.

They dug for clams and roasted them over a small fire, and then drank from the pagoda-covered well by the light-house. Mother told Jem that Captain Jim had built it there many years ago. They pretended it was a fountain of youth. That set off a frenzy of imaginging what life would be like a hundred years from now. Jem thought that everyone would have a motorcar and that people would be living on the moon. But since they had drunk from the fountain of youth, they would stay forever young. Of course it was all pretend but they enjoyed themselves all the same.

"Will you always be young, Mumsy?" asked Jem, knowing the answer. It couldn't be – some day she would be old and gray-haired – with lines on her face – perhaps even with a round belly like Miss Cornelia. And some day she might even go away to heaven. But –

"I'll be a girl in my heart forever," said Mother cheerfully. "I don't need a fountain of youth for that."

After their ship-watching in the clouds Jem wanted to see some real ships and so they took a walk to the harbour where they watched tall schooners and frigates. It was the golden light of afternoon and the harbour was abustle with men's voices and shouting and packages being tossed up and movement. But as twilight came in on it's soft feet everything stilled and the ships began to glide out one by one over the bar.

"_Twilight and evening bell,  
And after that the dark_!" quoth Mother, and sure enough they could hear the bells from the Methodist church over harbour. It was all very still and lovely and the air seemed very full. Jem put his hand in mother's and gave a little shiver. It was only that it was all so lovely.

Mother seemed to feel it, too. "We've had a perfect dream of a day, haven't we, little Jem?" asked she, as they walked again home with the stars faintly appearing in the sky above them.

"Yes," said Jem, full to the brim of his little heart with love. Love for mother – for the world – for everything. "Only, Motherest…"

"Yes, dear one?"

"I think you'd better leave off the 'little' when you call me Jem after this. 'Little' Jem sounds so babyish for someone who's so grown up, don't you think?"

Mother looked at him for a minute in the moonlight. Perhaps she was humoring the boy – or perhaps she could see the man he would become, one day – capable, sure, kind – and that is what made her say,

"I think you are exactly right – Jem. Now let us say goodnight to our lovely day – you can see her smiling at us as she disappears over the harbor."

There was a line of light against the distant dark horizon and they watched it until it was gone, and the stars had come out in earnest.


	20. 20

Gilbert's mother died in the first, beautiful week of spring. No sooner had they laid her to rest in the old, lovely Avonlea graveyard than John Blythe's health began to fail. Gilbert went down to make a diagnosis and returned, grim about the mouth. His father hadn't long to live.

John and Laura Blythe had never had a grand, sweeping love – but over the years it had mellowed into a warm, comfortable thing, like an old quilt. And so Gilbert's father told him that he had gotten used to living with his wife – had grown so used to living with her that he dared not live without her.

It was a matter of days – no more. He was fading quickly. Gilbert told Anne wearily as she met him coming up the Ingleside lane in the cool twilight. Anne was stricken. She had always loved old, merry John Blythe. He had treated her like a beloved daughter. Mr. Blythe had never minded that she was a scrawny, red-headed orphan, as so many others had. Anne's gray eyes grew fond with remembrance and then sorrowful at the thought that she would not meet John Blythe again – not on this side of the veil.

"Is there – anything – we can do for him, Gilbert?"

"No. Marilla and Mrs. Lynde have promised to go over and take care of him during the day – and I've hired a nurse to stay with him at night. It's good of them to do it, Anne. Marilla was sitting up with him when I left and Father looked as happy as I've ever seen him."

Anne swallowed the lump in her throat. She thought of the old rumour that Marilla had once been engaged to John Blythe – decades ago – a lifetime ago. Dear Marilla! And poor Father Blythe! She could not speak. Gilbert noticed this and so he spoke instead.

"He said to tell you, Anne, that he couldn't have been fonder of you if you were the daughter of a queen, and anyhow, that you always carried yourself like one so it was easy to imagine you were. He talked about the children. I told him that little Shirley looks like him about the eyes and mouth, and Father was so pleased. He mentioned especially that he wants Nan to have Mother's old Delft candlesticks – they are the only valuable thing he owns – because Nan reminds him of Mother so. And Jem is to have his pocketwatch and roll-top desk. He gave the watch to me for safekeeping now. I've it in my pocket. And – Anne – "

"Yes?" Anne managed to choke. Her eyes were very sad and gray.

"He has given us the farm – the old Blythe homestead – and he says that we may live there after he is gone."

Anne turned her head to the shadows. A disturbing play of emotions was crossing over it. Hope – surprise – and regret. She thought suddenly that it would be – so nice – to live in Avonlea once more! For her children to grow up haunting the places where the ghost of Anne of Green Gables dwelt – for she still must be there, mustn't she? A slender little russet-haired waif with starry gray eyes and a woefully freckled face – and a head of dreams. She _must_ be dipping her feet in the Birch Lake – playing in Idlewild – roaming through Hester Gray's garden – right now – always. A wave of homesickness washed over Anne, and regret that she was not still that little waif.

Diana would be near – how Anne missed Diana, so often. And her children could play with Little Fred and Small Anne Cordelia and baby Jack. They would go to Avonlea school, and Mrs. Rachel – and Marilla – Anne thought of the delight Marilla would have if they were to go to live in the old Blythe homestead and were near always. But – but –

Gilbert answered the question that she could not utter. "Doc Johnson was down to see Father – and he told me he was thinking of retiring – would definitely retire if he could only find a doctor to come and take his place."

"Do _you_ want to go back to Avonlea, Gilbert?" asked Anne.

"I've been thinking of it, since Father mentioned the whole thing. I don't know, Anne. I get a hankering for the old place, sometimes. Don't you?"

Anne did not say. She only asked, "Did you tell your Father we would take it?"

"I told him I would discuss it with you. But – I think it's best if we don't decide anything until – well, until after. Don't you?"

"Yes," said Anne, her eyes like twin flames.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gilbert went back the next morning on the first train. He said he would call when it was all over and they would make arrangements. Anne kissed him good-bye on the verandah and watched him go. Then she looked around her with a curious detached feeling. This lovely old spot! This house! Anne remembered how she had not wanted to live here, once. But could it be possible now they would go back to Avonlea and leave it?

She suddenly felt as if she must go out into the misty, sunrise-morning. It was early and everyone was still asleep – not even Susan was up. No one would miss her. So – she went! Out into the morning fog without even bothering with her wrap.

How ghostly the Glen seemed in the hour of sunrise! A strange light touched it, it seemed dearer than ever. Every spot she passed was a friend. How can you leave us? They wondered. The Glen Pond sparked to entice her. The little valley Jem had discovered seemed to enfold her as she walked through it. Anne made her way past all the places she loved and wended her way down the road to Four Winds.

Here were places even dearer. She passed the light – remembered Captain Jim. She passed Miss Cornelia's dear, prim, neat green house. And suddenly she was in the garden of the House of Dreams.

The House of Dreams – where Gilbert had brought her as a bride. Where Joyce had lived her one, sweet day. Where Jem had been born and where Anne had tasted happiness again after she thought all hope was lost. She sat down on the porch of the sleeping house – beloved friends were sleeping within.

"My body grew up at Green Gables," thought Anne, "But my _soul_ grew up here."

She spent an hour there that she told no one about – an hour haunted by memories. She smiled over some – cried over others. And then she stood as the first light crept over the harbour. She knew what she must do.

She had a quiet, pensive day. Gilbert did not call. At eventide, he was back. He had taken the train up. It was all over, he said. His father had died shortly after he arrived. John Blythe had gone gently. Before he died, he had spent a short while alone with Marilla and then he had takend Gilbert's hand and told him that he was proud of them. And then Death had come to him. But John Blythe smiled as he took his last breath, for Death had not come as a foe, but as a friend.

Gilbert looked tired. Anne took him in her arms.

"Oh, Gilbert!" she cried. "I am sorry – so sorry – my darling! But it is good to have you home."

"Home," said Gilbert. "Why, Anne – this place is home, isn't it? We couldn't go back to Avonlea – _this _is our home. This dear house in this dear Glen. Isn't it?"

"It is," breathed Anne. "And, oh – you don't want to go back to Green Gables, Gilbert?"

"I thought I would – but I think – I think we would find it very changed, Anne. Without Father – and when Mrs. Rachel and Marilla go – and we've put down roots here, haven't we, Anne-girl? It would hurt us horribly to be torn up and transplanted, even if it was to a dear place that we loved."

"I feel the same way," said Anne.

"Of course we'll go back for the funeral and we'll always have lovely visits," Gilbert mused.

"The loveliest!"

"But at the end of them – Anne – we'll come _home_."

"Oh, Gilbert," sighed Anne. "I'm so glad you feel as I do."

"And how do you feel, dear one?" he found it in him to smile.

"I feel," said Anne, with gathering sweetness in her eyes and voice, "That it was lovely to be Anne of Green Gables. Perhaps the loveliest thing that has ever happened to me – except for one."

"Which is?"

"To be Anne of Glen St. Mary," said Anne. "Of this town – this place – and these people – all that I love. Oh, it's so wonderful to be surrounded by love – and _loved ones_. I _am _Anne of the Glen, Gilbert – I am to the tips of my toes – and I could never be anything else."

THE END.


End file.
